


Dear Anne

by Purple_Slippers_18



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: But with Lots of Season Three References, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Love Confessions, Maturity is Exhausting, Quest for Self, Season Three Alternate Universe, Sharing a Bed, Shirbert, Slow Burn, and some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 113,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22118032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Slippers_18/pseuds/Purple_Slippers_18
Summary: Anne Shirley-Cuthbert has just turned sixteen and her entire world is about to change.But in order to face the future with courage, she will have to take a step back into her past and try to understand the girl she was so that she might embrace both the woman she is determined to become, and the feelings expanding in her young and eager heart.
Relationships: Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix/Sebastian ''Bash'' Lacroix, Ruby Gillis/Moody Spurgeon McPherson
Comments: 918
Kudos: 751





	1. It's Finally Happened...

_‘Dear Anne,_

_‘It is my sincerest wish that you will often experience the marvelous delight of seeing your imaginations come true. I was blessed to know such a joy when my dreams of a girl with freckles and red hair transformed into the miracle that is you…’_

* * *

Anne awoke exactly fourteen seconds before the rooster started crowing.

The sun warmed her skin, making her freckles fairly sparkle as her face was kissed by the yellow rays of early morning light. For a moment, Anne peeked one grey eye open, giving her surroundings a sluggish once over before snapping her lid shut, determined to banish the stirrings of her body as it was roused by the dawn. But then a thought flashed as vibrant as a limelight in the young girl’s mind, and Anne threw her quilt off her legs and sat straight up in bed.

“It’s today,” she whispered, feeling a delicious energy course through her as she bounded from her bed and dashed for the window. With eager fingers, Anne hoisted the pane up and stuck her head out into the biting March air.

It was a cold morning, but it was only just the end of winter. The first day of spring would be in a few weeks and with it would come the blissful bloom of new life. Soon the fields of Green Gables would be an ocean of viridian, the brown grass raked away, the moist leaves beaten into compost, and the bare chrysanthemum bushes blushing in early bloom. It would be the picture of life born anew, and the romantic turning of the seasons had Anne nearly swooning in delight.

“Good morning, Snow Queen!” she called to the cherry tree outside her window, grey eyes alighting on the silvery branches as they were warmed by the sun. “Can you believe today has come at last? But it’s finally here. I’m sixteen!”

Anne giggled as she listened to her voice carry across the farm, imagining the cows, Pride and Prejudice, rousing from their slumber at the sound of her delighted echo.

“I just know that today will be splendid. It’s already turned out so perfectly wonderful,” she said to herself, firm in her belief that this birthday would be special. And why shouldn’t it be? Every girl dreamed of the day she turned sixteen. At last, Anne was firmly setting foot on the path to adulthood, and the redhead couldn’t be more enlivened to begin this new, mysterious - but so delectably compelling - chapter of her life.

Skipping to her little vanity, Anne gave her reflection a methodical once-over.

The freckles and red hair remained, but time had given some thaw to Anne’s heart on those matters. She would still pray every night that she might wake with unblemished ivory skin and hair rich as dark coffee, but as God had not answered her prayers, Anne supposed the Almighty must have some reason for keeping her so plain looking, and deduced it was better to simply accept her disappointing appearance rather than drive herself mad over wishing for a miracle.

Besides, it seemed that sixteen had brought on some appealing changes. Anne was certain her chin had lost its childish roundness overnight and was now the delicate boned jaw of a girl in the first fresh stages of womanhood. Her nose, too, appeared sharper, and it made Anne wish desperately that she could see her profile, certain that it would be a most refined silhouette. Then there were her eyes, the large silver orbs positively shimmering like the surface of the Lake of Shining Waters, deep with wisdom she was glad to share with any thirsty wanderer that might seek quenching at her shore.

“My, my, Katie,” she sighed at her reflection as if she were a proud mother appraising her daughter, “look how you’ve grown.”

Smiling at herself, Anne started getting ready for the day. Her first task was, of course, her hair. Untangling it from what was left of the loose braid she’d slept in, Anne diligently brushed through the knots and began plaiting the thick russet tresses into two long braids. Since Anne could braid her hair blindfolded, she completed the task without thought while letting her eyes wander across her vanity, feeling her heart pinch with joy at each treasure she alighted on.

There was a small corked vial of earth taken right from the foot of the steps of Green Gables (a memento she’d sneaked three years ago when she thought the Cuthberts might send her away), a trio of feathers – from a blue jay, hoot owl and northern flicker - tied together with some twine, and a doily of questionable pattern, but it had been the first Anne had ever made and it was functional even if it wasn’t perfect.

Tucked along the mirror’s edge, Anne kept some of her most precious tokens, including a photograph Aunt Jo had commissioned of Anne, Diana and Cole, the first Christmas card Jerry had made for her, and a postcard from Toronto that Ms. Stacy had sent her last summer. There was another precious relic amongst Anne’s vanity, only this one was quietly stashed away near the oil lamp, gently propped up so that, when Anne’s eyes did, at last, rest upon the treasure, she could take her time to admire the embellished cursive that she had become remarkably familiar with.

Gilbert always had a tendency to embellish his ‘t’s, crossing them with a curving flourish that put Anne in mind of a cat’s tail. And his capital ‘A’s were so perfect that it sometimes made Anne mad to admire them, especially when they were poised so prettily at the start of her plain name. When Gilbert had written to her from Trinidad, she’d been so enamoured of the ‘Miss’ before her name that it had taken weeks of re-reading before the redhead even noticed how strong and lovely the ‘A’ of her first name appeared on the tan envelope. And even though Gilbert had come back to Avonlea long ago (was someone she saw nearly every day, in fact) Anne kept his letter on her vanity, sometimes gently unfolding the paper to read words she’d memorized, but mostly just to have it nearby, as much a part of her room as her bed, or her curtains, or her desk. Anne’s gable would feel empty without that letter.

She wondered if Gilbert remembered that it was her birthday today.

“Enough, brain,” she chided softly, not for the first time having to instruct her mind to cease lingering on her curly-haired neighbour; it was getting to be a frustratingly common pep-talk of late.

Finishing changing, choosing to wear a dress that was fairly new (a pickle green garment with subtle puff sleeves, shining ebony buttons down the back, and stripes along the skirt in a slightly darker shade of sage) and a stiffly starched pinafore with ruching at the shoulders, Anne laced up her boots and hopped down the stairs.

“Glorious of good mornings, Green Gables!” she sang, jumping down the last three steps, her skirts flying up around her knees. Mathew, already seated at the table, chuckled, while Marilla tutted and placed her hands on her hips.

“Must we really be subjected to your theatrics so early in the morning, Anne?” the older woman grumbled.

“But this isn’t just any morning,” Anne exclaimed, sitting beside Mathew.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Marilla teased, a playful twinkle in her clear blue eyes that spoke volumes of the change that had come over the spinster in the years since Anne Shirley had become Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

“Happy birthday, Anne,” Mathew said gently, reaching for Anne’s hand and giving it a loving squeeze which the girl returned.

“And for the birthday girl: a special birthday breakfast,” Marilla announced, her tone entirely practical but her smile certainly radiant as she returned from the kitchen with a tray piled high with hot, steaming flapjacks. Anne didn’t try to stifle her glee, squealing and applauding as the tray was placed in the centre of the table. Heaping plenty of blueberry preserve and maple syrup on her breakfast, Anne and the Cuthberts pleasantly dug into their food, basking in one another’s company, and going over their day’s plans.

“Now, you swear you’re not disappointed it’ll just be us for your birthday dinner tonight?” Marilla checked as she started clearing the dirty dishes.

“Of course not!” Anne exclaimed seriously. “While I confess to being disheartened at first that none of the girls were free this evening to join us, and that Gilbert and the Lacroixs have also been otherwise detained with business, I’ve given it some thought and have decided that spending one’s birthday with one’s parents is truly the very best way to celebrate. You’re my two most favourite people in the world, so who else should I need to be with today?”

Seeing how Mathew blushed and Marilla tried not to preen under Anne’s sweet praise made the redhead giddy. She loved reminding the Cuthberts that they were the very best parents anyone could ask for, and it seemed all the more important to remind them of the depths of her regard and affection on this auspicious day.

“You’ll be late for school,” Mathew said amid his blustering, and Anne was quick to give the old man a kiss on the cheek before humming on her way out of the house, never once catching a glimpse of the scheming look shared between the siblings.

* * *

The March air was crisp, little clouds of mist billowing from between Anne’s parted lips as she strode down the path into the Haunted Woods. Each crunching step put the young woman in mind of the Southern Cross expedition – which she’d been following with voracious interest via borrowed copies of Ms. Stacy’s _Halifax Gazette_ – the fragile leaves breaking under her soles evoking images of thick Antarctic ice plates being crushed against a steamship’s powerful bow. Which was entirely appropriate since, on this morning, Anne felt like she was a pirate captain setting out on a voyage into the uncharted waters of her future, heart filled with mettle as she stepped out to show the world the sort of person she intended to become.

And for her first order of business as this adventurous pirate queen? Obviously, it was to secure her first mate. 

Picking up her pace, Anne rushed along the well-known path, soon catching the encroaching echo of a similar harried step. Looking to her right, the tell-tale sight of navy blue skirts began flickering through the trees, closer and closer until Anne was struck with the full force of Diana Barry barreling against her chest, her school things thrown to the frosty ground so that she could reach up to capture her friend in a tight embrace.

“Oh Anne!” the black-haired girl implored.

“Dear Diana!” the redhead answered in equally fervent kind. “How will I ever live without you?!”

“One hundred and eighty-seven more days until we’re torn apart!” Diana added tragically.

“Please don’t go to Paris!”

“Please don’t go to Queens!”

“All the refined, and interesting, and beautiful people you’ll meet at finishing school; you’ll forget all about ordinary me.”

“You’ll be away at college with everyone else, learning so many amazing new things for your vocation, and I’ll fade away from your memory like a fog.”

Restraining themselves from collapsing into a wallowing mess, the two girls took deep breaths and linked their pinky fingers together, just as they had done every day since last fall when they'd been informed of Diana’s finishing school sentence.

“I swear, you are the only bosom friend I will ever have. A letter a day and nothing less,” they vowed together, the open sky and frozen birch trees standing as their witnesses. Pressing their brows together and smiling once the reassuring words had been expressed, Anne offered Diana her arm, which the girl accepted, and the two friends picked up their books and began for the schoolhouse at a leisurely pace.

“Happy birthday, Anne,” Diana said, giving her friend a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry again that I’m not able to join you and the Cuthberts for dinner, but my mother insists I practice my Chopin until my fingers fall off.”

“Diana, I told you, it’s alright. There are few forces in this world I would say are impenetrable, but Eliza Barry’s will is certainly one of them. I so wish there was a way we could convince her to let you come to college – no! I’m not letting myself think about it. Today is my birthday and I refuse to dwell on upsetting subjects. Instead, I propose we divert the topic to the happy fact that we are now both sixteen! I have finally caught up to you.”

“And may I remind you that my own birthday is in one month’s time and then I will have surpassed you yet again, being the grounded and wise elder in our friendship,” Diana answered back, throwing in a perfect imitation of her mother’s assertive nod that had Anne laughing all the way to the schoolhouse.

“Well then, oh wisest of Dianas, tell me how your article for the ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ column went. Are you finished?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Diana answered, stopping by the creek that cut across a corner of the schoolyard to place her bottle of milk atop the ice.

“Is it really that bad?” Anne wondered.

“It’s worse!” Diana groused, her cry causing a flock of osprey to flutter away from their nests in the reeds. The vehement protest from her best friend truly surprised Anne, but before she could ask if Diana was alright the young woman let loose a torrent of bitter words. “Have you ever heard of William Herbert? Perhaps you might know him by his proper title, Lord Pembroke, which he was awarded by King Henry VIII for being so brilliantly diplomatic as to secure a short-lived peace treaty between England and Scotland in the 1530s. He’s an ancestor on my mother’s side.”

“But Diana, that sounds amazing!” Anne replied, confused over why her friend seemed so distraught. “To have such a noble lineage is something to be proud of, is it not?”

“Not when that very lineage has created the chains keeping me from the people I love,” the dark-haired beauty despaired, and she sounded so shattered that Anne was hesitant to reach out and touch her friend for fear she would splinter into a thousand pieces.

“Diana? Won’t you tell me what’s really been bothering you?” Anne implored, and not for the first time.

Since the Christmas holiday, Anne had noticed a change come over Diana that was polarizing to say the least. There were moments Diana seemed so filled to the brim with excitement and joy that she was as luminescent as the moon, then there were times she would become quiet, not melancholy but thoughtful, as if her spirit was caught outside of her body on a plain no one could reach, and then there were the times like this morning beside the creek when Diana was so vexed that her grimace alone caused others to give her a wide berth. Something was plaguing the girl, and Anne just wished she knew what troubled her bosom friend so egregiously.

“It’s nothing,” Diana replied, disappointing Anne (but she wouldn’t let her see it). “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

As they hung their jackets and hats in the cloakroom, several of Anne’s schoolmates wished her a happy birthday, and by the time they were making their way to their desks, Diana’s mood seemed to have improved. Before taking her seat, Anne immediately took notice of the splendidly ripe red apple perched with picturesque precision on her desk. There was no note or card that came with it, but the fact it was a strawberry apple and only one orchard in all of Prince Edward Island grew the small sweet fruit, Anne knew exactly who had planted the gift for her to find. Smiling, she pocketed the apple and looked up to the front of the class where the culprit of her gift was standing at the chalkboard with Ms. Stacy.

Gilbert Blythe had not changed overmuch in the past year-and-a-half, except perhaps to have gotten taller. And his curls more wild. And his eyes more keen with intelligence. And his chin…well, Anne wasn’t sure what it was about the boy’s chin, but it certainly had her transfixed. She watched with an unspecified interest as he spoke to their teacher, her grey gaze tracing the strong line of his jaw and noticing, perhaps for the first time, the little dimple that made itself known just under the left corner of his mouth when he smiled.

“Anne!”

“I wasn’t!” the redhead frantically denied, though what it was she was claiming she wasn’t doing even she could not say. Thankfully Ruby, who had been the one to startle her, didn’t ask for clarification, having given up hope of truly understanding her friend’s eccentricities long ago.

“Happy birthday,” the blond said, handing Anne a pretty card and expressing her apologies for not being able to join Anne for her birthday dinner, only her family were planning to spend the weekend in Carmody to do some shopping for the spring season and the trip had been planned weeks before Anne’s invitation had been offered. Like with Diana, Anne assured her that there were no hard feelings and that Ruby had more than made up for her absence with the well wishes and the draft of her latest romance story which she’d folded up in the card. “And you’ll be proud of me. I’ve given my hero a truly unique and chivalrous name this time: Guildheart.”

“Ruby –”

“No, Diana, it’s a good name!” Ruby insisted before her friend could argue.

“Good name or not, it’s still inspired by the same certain someone that you base _all_ your heroes on,” the girl groused.

“Well this one isn’t,” Ruby stated firmly. “For starters, Guildheart has a mustache. But now that I say it; oh, girls! Wouldn’t Gilbert look awfully dashing with a mustache?”

“About as dashing as Charlie or Moody would with one,” Diana quipped.

“Moody could pull off a mustache,” Ruby said a bit thoughtfully after glancing quickly at their classmate who was so busy making mooneyes at the unsuspecting blond that he nearly caught the cuff of his shirt on fire as he tended to the stove.

“Alright, class. I think it’s time we let today’s journey down the path of knowledge commence!” Ms. Stacy announced, and the students all quickly took their places at their desks. Just as Anne was organizing her papers, she caught a brief glance at Gilbert out of the corner of her eye, catching him staring at her with that amused expression he so often wore when she would spot him looking her way. Returning the smile, Anne laid a hand over the pocket of her pinafore that held the apple and gave it a few pats, her silent way of thanking him for the treat, before turning her full attention to their teacher, ready and eager for the day’s lessons.

Thus, time passed in a flurry of history (they had just reached Queen Victoria’s Silver Jubilee), English (a recitation and analysis of _Bingen on the Rhine_ ), maths (algebra was cumbersome, but still preferable to geometry), and science (they were using plants to discuss a fascinating stream of biology known as cell theory). The last hour of the class was dedicated to finalizing the articles for their humble school newspaper. 

Last September, Ms. Stacy had come into possession of a broken printing press which, with the help of Mathew Cuthbert, she was able to repair and have sequestered in the little schoolhouse for her students to take on a true passion project that not only benefitted themselves, but the whole of Avonlea. The village had never had a newspaper before, and while the change was met with some trepidation (as all changes were, especially in small towns) now most everyone looked forward to Sundays when, after mass, they could expect to be met outside the church by the cherubic faces of their town’s youth offering up a ‘hot-off-the-press’ edition of the _Avonlea Gazette_. The paper had come to be so popular that many of the villagers submitted suggestions for articles, which is how the ‘Getting-To-Know-You’ piece came to be.

After Diana had recited her family’s intimidatingly impressive history, Ms. Stacy announced that the following week would see Anne heading the column.

“Oh, but Ms. Stacy,” Anne said, “I wouldn’t need a week to research my history. I can give it all right now from memory.”

“Anne?” the teacher questioned, the redhead’s statement having caught the attention of the rest of her classmates.

“I’m an orphan, and I have no information on my lineage. Therefore, I am a mystery, shrouded in an enigmatic riddle. The end.”

“Oh Anne –”

“It’s fine, Ms. Stacy, truly,” Anne said before her teacher could apologize for something Anne honestly did not feel bad about. “Perhaps at one time not knowing where I came from would have upset me, but since coming to Avonlea, getting adopted, and being part of the community – of the island! — I’ve resolved to forever think of myself, past, present and future, as Anne of Green Gables.”

With another firm assurance that Anne was not offended by Ms. Stacy, the rest of the day was spent making final edits on the paper before the teacher dismissed her students and wished them a happy weekend. As usual, Anne and Diana started for home together, linked arm-in-arm and nattering about all manner of topics from school, to the weekend homework, to plans to meet on Sunday after church for a bit of afternoon baking.

“Anne, do you have Ruby’s story? She’ll want to talk about it on Monday, no doubt, and I’ll have to have read it before then or else I’m afraid I won’t be able to school my expressions. I wish I was better at pretending her silliness didn’t vex me so.”

“She’s only really silly about Gilbert,” Anne commented, stopping to rummage through her coat pockets for the papers.

“And all Ruby thinks about is Gilbert, so she’s silly all the time,” Diana countered. “I’m honestly surprised it doesn’t bother you.”

“Why should it bother me?” Anne asked, a bit too quick and high pitched. Her denial earned her one of Diana’s shrewd stares, the kind that made Anne uncomfortable since it felt as if Diana was seeing secrets even Anne didn’t know she was keeping. Determined to ignore her friend’s all-knowing expression, Anne turned away and continued searching her person for Ruby’s story. When her fingers closed around a small scrap of paper from one of her coat pockets, Anne pulled the odd slip out, not recognizing it as something she’d stowed away. Curious, she unfolded it and read with lightning speed the message scratched across the beige surface.

“Anne? What is it?” Diana asked, starting to move so she could see what her friend was up to.

“I forgot it!” Anne exclaimed, turning to Diana with both hands grasped tightly behind her back, concealing the paper. “Ruby’s story. I must have left it back at school. If I hurry, maybe Ms. Stacy hasn’t locked up yet.”

“But Anne –” Diana called just as her friend started running towards the schoolhouse, never looking back and thus completely ignorant of the little victorious grin that spread across Diana’s face. Giddily, Diana did a merry jig in the middle of the forest, thrilled that all seemed to be going according to plan.

“May I join you, miss?” a velvety soft voice inquired just as Diana was lost in a myriad of twirls.

Stopping, the young woman watched as a tall, lanky boy came out of the thicket. He was still in his work clothes, dry hay sticking to his jacket and muck caking his boots, but he’d taken the time to wash his hands and face, though even if they had been soiled Diana was certain she wouldn’t have minded since she so adored the heart and soul attached to said face and hands.

“Monsieur,” she curtsied, waiting with a coy twinkle in her dark eyes. Catching on to her teasing, the young man offered his hand, which Diana took, and then he pulled her close and trotted the pair of them across the slippery forest floor in a glad jig that saw the both of them laughing merrily, half the time making up the steps as they went. “Jerry!” Diana trilled, “it’s all working out splendidly!”

“I can see,” the eighteen-year old said, spinning Diana under his arm. “Anne is not with you.”

“No indeed,” she confirmed. “I’m not sure what Gilbert did, but it certainly had her rushing away.”

“We’ll need to rush away, too, if you still want to help Ms. Cuthbert,” Jerry said, bringing their careless spinning to a halt. He held Diana’s hands against his chest, letting her feel how fast his heart was beating just by being near her. For her part, Diana was too distracted by how rich Jerry’s eyes were, their creamy hickory hue reminding the young woman of the hot cocoa her Aunt Josephine drank every night. Staring up into those eyes (and indeed, Jerry so towered over her that Diana literally had to look straight up when she stood chest to chest with the farm lad) Diana Barry felt blissful. It was a feeling that had been creeping up on her for a long while, and standing under the shady canopy of nature, the dark-haired beauty of Avonlea was certain no other man would ever make her feel as cherished and adored as Jerry Baynard did.

“Mon coeur,” she sighed, stroking his cheek, wishing it was dirty so that her glove might get smudged and then she’d be able to hold a little part of Jerry in her palm the rest of the day.

As if sensing her sweet longing, Jerry grasped Diana’s wrist, stilling her caressing fingers so he could place a kiss on the tip of each one before giving a firmer peck to the centre of her hand, devilishly nipping at the flesh through the leather. The bold move made Diana gasp, and while her lips were parted, Jerry took his opportunity and swept down to steal a passionate kiss, taking all of Diana’s pretty moans into his mouth.

It wasn’t their first kiss. The finesse with which the young couple tugged and teased spoke of many trysts where learning how to kiss with such greed and gusto had been thoroughly practiced. And yet, the embrace still vibrated with the electricity of unrestrained first love, as if there was much more Diana and Jerry had yet to discover.

But those discoveries would have to wait for another day.

“Come, Diana. We have to go,” Jerry said, reluctant to end the kiss but knowing they would be missed if they did not hurry back to Green Gables.

Stepping away from the embrace, the eighteen-year old only managed to get a few inches’ distance between himself and his sweetheart before Diana was hopping into his arms, her mouth demanding his take hers just as her actions demanded he hold her flush against his body. With feet kicked back in the air, Diana kissed Jerry as if she mightn’t kiss him again (and with the ever increasing vigilance of her parents’ critical eyes stalking her every action and thought, it was more than possible she might not be able to kiss Jerry for days or even weeks!) her tongue tracing his lips and even sneaking a sip of him before she was satisfied. When she pulled away and saw his dazed expression, she couldn’t help but giggle, placing an adoring peck on Jerry’s nose before slipping out of his arms and planting her feet back on the ground.

“Well then,” she began, brushing her hands over her dress to eliminate any wrinkles, “to Green Gables.”

“Right,” Jerry said, barely managing to shake himself of the spell of Diana’s kiss before joining her on the path back to the Cuthbert’s farm. “Anne is going to be so surprised,” he said, pleased when he started to imagine the look of delight on his friend’s face when she returned to the house.

“Yes. Let’s just hope Gilbert’s able to hold up his end of the plan,” Diana added. “He only needs to keep her distracted for an hour.”

“He should ask her about books. She never shuts up when you ask her about books,” Jerry said.

“I suppose books are one way a handsome young man might distract a pretty young lady,” Diana teased. “‘ _We shall be monsters cut off from all the world’_.”

“That sounds familiar,” Jerry teased back, thinking of the day he’d given Diana his copy of _Frankenstein_ and all the days after when they would meet in secret to discuss the story. Perhaps that was how their affair had started long before confessions and kisses. But no matter what it was that brought the pair together, Jerry was only glad that Diana Barry knew his heart as well as he knew hers.

And because he knew that kind and passionate heart so well, Jerry knew that it was not Diana’s choice to distance herself from him the closer they got to Green Gables. He knew she did not wish to walk in front of him, to not look back, to feign she hardly knew him. He knew that once they were in the farmhouse and lost in the throes of preparations with their neighbours that it was not Diana’s choice to ignore him, to pretend she did not see him, to stay on the other side of the room. But even knowing all this did not stop the young man’s heart from pinching each time it happened, as if his affection was being whittled away.

Because away from the shelter of the Haunted Woods, the couple were no longer Diana and Jerry, two adolescents bursting into bloom with the vigor and veracity of burgeoning love. They were Diana Barry, eldest daughter of the richest family in Avonlea, and Jerry Baynard, the sixth child of thirteen to a poor Acadian family that lived in a three-room cottage on the outskirts of town.

If Anne knew of the plight of her friends, she might have sighed and waxed poetic of the impossible tragedy of Diana and Jerry’s romance. But as it was, no one save for the couple themselves knew, and even if both could perfectly imagine Anne’s reaction to their secret, Diana nor Jerry could confess to being over fond of tragical romances.

Who really liked a sad ending, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> So, Season Three, and indeed our beloved show, is over and we are left bereft in a world without Anne with an E on the horizon. However, the very best joy of fan fiction is that we can continue to be with the characters we love and, like our own dear Bride of Adventure, we can go to an endless number of new places, chart new paths, and seek new destinies for fictional friends as near and dear to us as those of true flesh and bone.
> 
> Which brings me to my love letter to the show, Dear Anne.
> 
> I actually started the concept for this fic after Episode Two of Season Three, and as the following episodes unfolded, so too did this grain of an idea transform into a rather vast, and very exciting, tale of near novel proportions!
> 
> Now, by no means is Dear Anne meant to be a ‘fix-it’ for Season Three, which is why I did not include that tag. I truly did love the season. I prefer to think of my story as a parallel universe to AWAE S3, because it has never been my intention to correct anything that was presented to us in canon when I started writing this story.
> 
> That being said, many season three plot points and characters most certainly affected the direction I’ve taken with this creation, but I will admit that the one solitary inspiration that drives the entirety of Dear Anne forward is my beautiful and forever-enduring OTP: Shirbert.
> 
> Honestly, that’s what Dear Anne is at its core: one great, big, soppy love letter to Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and Gilbert Blythe. As the story unfolds you will find pining, UST, slow-burn, passion, friends-to-lovers, romantic misunderstandings, breakups, makeups, and maybe (definitely) a blanket scenario.
> 
> The tropes and clichés will be many, and I hope you are here for it!
> 
> There will also be growing pains, because while Anne and Gilbert are going to grow in romance, they are also simply just growing up, so we’ll be joining them for every exquisitely painful step on their journey from the bright-eyed best minds of Avonlea’s schoolhouse to two young people setting out to face the world. 
> 
> I hope you’re hanging on, cuz this train is leaving the station, full speed ahead. 😉


	2. ...I'm Sixteen!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's birthday continues to be full of surprises

_‘Dear Anne,_

_Remember that trees are as vital to life as sunshine, and water, and air. Without trees, surely a part of the soul would die. So please, keep the sturdy oak, the lithe birch, the vibrant spruce and bushy fir, the immortal pine and winsome maple near and dear to your heart, and they will be loyal to you all your life...’_

* * *

Anne whistled as her boots crunched over the gritty trail made from a dried-out creek trench. She kept looking left and right, taking in the new sights of this wood she had never before explored, falling in love with the patches of witch hazel and blankets of moss that covered fallen ash trunks and the sprigs of crocus flowers bursting bravely through the frigid soil. As she walked, Anne reviewed the scrap of paper that had caused her to excitedly dash away from Diana and start off on this odd adventure.

**‘Follow the school creek towards the ocean.  
Keep the Haunted Woods to your back and the thicket of larch trees always in your sight.  
There’s a broken path of pebbles that will take you the rest of the way.  
When you see the weeping willow, step inside its branches,  
I promise, the surprise will be worth it.**

**-GJB’**

Anne should have known Gilbert had more than a strawberry apple up his sleeve for her birthday.

Since gifting her the pocket dictionary the Christmas before last, Gilbert Blythe had found a way to surprise Anne with thoughtful presents for both her fifteenth birthday, and last Christmas. She’d met each of his gifts with ones of her own, enjoying the challenge of trying to outdo her friend with considerate presents. And no matter what Gilbert had in mind for Anne with his cryptic clues, she was certain his surprise had no chance of outshining her gift to him on his eighteenth birthday that past October.

It still made Anne’s chest puff out with pride every time she saw him wearing the pocket watch, which he did each day. The look on his face when he’d opened the case was ingrained in Anne’s memory like a photograph, the details of his eyes wide with surprise, the way his brows pinched in disbelief, how his mouth had opened in a silent exclamation of awe, even the way the few freckles across his cheeks had seemed to shake with astonishment, were all tucked safely away in Anne’s mind. She even remembered how she’d had to threaten him to put the piece on, the stubborn boy insisting the gift was far too grand. It was only when Anne was holding Gilbert’s copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ aloft and poised to strike him as swiftly as she had the day they’d met that he’d finally relented to wear the timepiece. Though he’d insisted he was only sporting the watch under duress (he had no desire to add another crack to his skull courtesy of one Anne Shirley-Cuthbert) Anne had caught him admiring it quite a few times.

So, there was simply no way that Gilbert’s surprise for her birthday could possibly outshine the one she’d given him. In fact, she was so determined on this belief that she started practicing a consoling, but smug, speech she intended to deliver to her friend when his present would undoubtably fail.

Anne followed the pebbly trench for another five minutes before coming upon the weeping willow in Gilbert’s note. The towering tree was magnificent, standing out amongst a copse of firs clustered tight together on either side of the looming willow, like sentries guarding a wise and noble liege. The branches of the willow were painted in a thick coat of ice, encompassing the entire tree like a white, bushy beard. For a while, Anne simply admired the tree, deciding that this ancient beauty was the great-grandfather of her dear Snow Queen; a protector of all the forests north of Avonlea.

“Good Silver King,” she greeted, curtseying before the willow, “might you grant this humble girl the honour of seeing what secrets lay hidden under your boughs?”

Anne imagined if the tree could answer it would say that only those with benevolence towards all things in nature could cross through the boughs without fear of being cut by their icy sheaths. Squaring her shoulders, Anne stepped forward and parted the frozen branches, passing the threshold and entering the Silver King’s hidden kingdom.

It was like finding oneself sequestered in an ice palace.

The inner boughs were just as frosted with ice as the outer ones and the fat trunk was showered in snow. The few powerful rays of sunshine that were stubborn enough to penetrate through the thick canopy made the frozen droplets of ice twinkle like crystals, and Anne took her time admiring the Silver King’s jewels. She realized, as she circled round and round the willow, that her boots were crunching in snow, the ground heaping with the ankle-high flakes. She recognized imprints of rabbit and squirrel paws, even the twirling disarray of her own boots, but there was a second set of footprints, these ones making a solid and sure path for the other side of the willow.

Smiling, Anne stepped into Gilbert’s tracks, feeling like a hunter stalking prey, and she giggled as she came to the edge of the willow and parted the boughs, peeking through to see what secret lay on the other side.

What Anne found was so splendid that it almost put the elegant beauty of the Silver King to shame.

It was a secret garden, a beautiful expanse of earth that stretched for several yards, protected by the Silver King and his sentry firs and awash in yellow sunlight. The ground was a patchwork of slush and mud, but Anne could see where new grass would soon grow, spotting the scattered zigzag of an aged cobbled path that broke up the land, little weeds already shooting between the rocks. There were barren rosebushes and naked cherry trees, a veritable forest of alder shrubs, and more crocuses and some snowdrops adding a promise of new life to the enchanted hollow.

In fact, Anne was rather decided that a whole city of Faye creatures must have made their homes in the low dyke that was cracked and crumbling all along the perimeter of the garden, most of the old stone overgrown with tall grass. One section was divided completely in two by a young elm tree, the bark and rock merged together in a haunting web of roots that curled in and out of the wall, as if the elm had sunk its fingers into the dyke and was determined to never let go.

“Surprise!” a familiar voice cried out as Anne was bent over examining the corpse of a marble birdbath. The exclamation didn’t make her jump. Instead, knowing who was behind the exuberant greeting made Anne smile and her stomach coil, just for a moment, in enthusiastic anticipation.

“Gil, what is this magical place?” Anne asked, turning to find her friend seated on a wide swing that was strung up between two maple trees.

With his ankles crossed and hands tucked in his coat pockets, Gilbert Blythe looked every bit the carefree gentleman most of the matrons of Avonlea assumed him to be. Anne knew better, though. True, the boy could be charming, even chivalrous and courteous if the mood struck him, but the very essence of Gilbert Blythe was that of a mischievous rascal with a rapier wit and rational mind all packaged together in the handsome face of a romantic hero straight out of a novel. In fact, sitting as he was, casually swinging back and forth as he watched Anne with those honey hazel eyes so warm they could melt snow, and that smile that had been known to make a maiden swoon at time or two, the redhead was sure the boy could be Puck sprung to life from the pages of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

“Welcome, Carrots, to Hester Gray’s garden,” he said, taking off his hat and sweeping his arms out as if he were king of the land.

“I’m only going to ignore that detestable nickname because I am utterly overwhelmed,” Anne scoffed in mock indignation. “I’ve often imagined wandering upon a pixies’ hollow as I’ve explored the island, but I truly never did expect to find one. How did this Hester Gray happen to come into possession of such a pastoral dream?”

“You’ll love this,” Gilbert promised, patting the empty space at his side on the swing. “It’s a story full of tragical romance.”

“My favourite,” Anne replied, eyes stuck on the two maple trees as she approached Gilbert, her imagination already picturing how marvelous they would be awash in the vibrant red and gold hues of October. With a comfortable familiarity, Anne sat next to Gilbert, gasping when he kicked his feet back so the swing would rock, her reflexes causing her to reach out and grip the sleeve of his coat so she wouldn’t lose her balance. Flashing her friend a narrowed glower and giving his arm a few firm smacks, Gilbert only chuckled lightly at Anne’s crossness before proceeding to appease her curiosity.

“Hester’s husband gave it to her as a wedding gift,” he started, now rocking them gently as he spun the tale.

True to his word, the story was tragical, beginning with Jordan Gray and Hester Murray’s fated meeting at the 1829 American Institute Fair which resulted in a passionate one-week love affair that culminated in a marriage. Anne was a delightful audience, sighing over the love between Hester and Jordan, exclaiming her admiration of Hester when she learned the woman had built the garden herself, from the planting of each shrub and flower to the cobbled path and sloping dyke. She gasped wetly when Gilbert got to the part where Hester, riddled with consumption, died a young woman in her husband’s arms, the man having carried her out to her garden so that the last sight she might take with her to heaven would be of her beloved under the turning leaves of the maple trees where she’d strung a swing for them. 

“Oh, good Hester, thank you for this little joy,” Anne invoked, kicking her feet hard so that the swing gave a swooping jolt, chuckling as she let her head fall back so she could look up at the bare branches of the maples. “We’ll have to come back in the summer when everything is blooming and green. Maybe then the pixies will join us.”

“Maybe,” Gilbert agreed, his voice going soft and thoughtful, the way it would sometimes when Anne was too distracted by her imaginings to notice how he stared at her with an adoring longing.

In fact, one of Gilbert’s favourite pass times was to look at Anne. If he had Cole’s artistic talent, Gilbert was certain he could draw his friend from every angle, having studied her face so well it was as familiar to him as his own. He knew the place of every freckle across her nose, had counted each copper eyelash, and memorized every strand of her bewitching red hair. He was very tempted to tug on one of the long plaits as they swayed on the swing, but before he could reach out a naughty hand and commit the act he knew vexed her so, Anne shifted, disrupting his train of thought.

“Here,” she said, taking the apple from her pinafore and tossing it in the air, trusting Gilbert to catch it, which he did. “Cut it in half, please.” Working deftly with his pocketknife, Gilbert did as Anne asked and offered the apple back to her, but she only took one piece. “Eat up.”

“I got the apple for _you_ ,” he insisted, trying to get her to take the second half.

“And I want to share _my_ apple with my friend,” she countered, shooting the boy a pointed look which he knew from experience there was no arguing with. With a rueful smile, Gilbert bit into his share of the apple, enjoying the sweet juice as it filled his mouth, the flesh tender and succulent. “Mrs. Lynde said a constable was at your house yesterday,” Anne drawled as they ate, trying not to appear as curious as Gilbert knew she was. He couldn’t help smirking at her poorly concealed attempt at politely asking over his affairs. The fact she was asking at all was rather sweet.

“I’m not surprised Mrs. Lynde knows that, since she ‘found-herself-in-the-neighbourhood’ about half a dozen times all afternoon,” Gilbert replied, no true heat in his criticism of the woman’s incessant meddling. “They haven’t been able to find Elijah, or my father’s things. The constable came to tell me in person that the trail was cold and they’d hit a dead end. It’s over. The commissioner has decided nothing more can be done.”

“Oh, Gil…” Anne lamented, reaching over to place a firm hand on his shoulder and offer an assuring squeeze.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“It’s not,” Anne countered, and Gilbert shook his head because, of course, he couldn’t keep his true feelings from her. After all, it was Anne who had comforted him last November, joining him at the Blythe graveyard and letting him lean on her as he stared at his father’s stone, silently begging the man’s spirit for forgiveness for having lost all of his precious mementos…

* * *

_It was jarring to be invited into the Blythe-Lacroix home and not be met with laughter. Normally when Bash answered the door it was with a smile and genuine welcome, but when the man asked Anne inside this time it was with a silent somber wave of his hand. Confused, Anne deposited the basket of fresh buns and jars of Marilla’s gooseberry jam (something to sate Mary’s latest craving) on the table and asked the man why he was so glum. With an exhausted sigh, Bash told Anne the whole truth of it, of how Elijah had come to the house, played the part of prodigal son returned to his gleeful mother, only to brutally deceive her by robbing her new family and returning to his sorry life of liquor and crime._

_“He only took John’s things,” Bash said brokenly. “He wanted to hurt Gilbert.”_

_“Where is he?” Anne asked, to which Bash pulled back a lace curtain just enough that Anne was able to make out a dark figure near the Blythe graveyard. “And Mary?”_

_“Our bedroom,” Bash answered, and now some tears did creep from the corners of his eyes. “She’s so injured, but not just herself, her heart breaks for Gilbert, too. She feels guilty her boy did this to him.”_

_“But Gilbert wouldn’t blame Mary for Elijah’s actions,” Anne said certainly._

_“Can’t tell a grieving heart that,” Bash replied wisely, and Anne knew only too well how confusing and irrational emotions could be._

_“I’m going to talk to Gilbert. You should be with Mary.”_

_“Maybe it’s better to leave him alone for now,” Bash suggested, thinking of how his first attempts at comforting his brother had failed miserably._

_“Better or not, I’m going,” Anne said, the determined furrow of her ginger brows telling Bash there was no use in arguing with the girl. Besides, he knew if there was anyone in the world who could talk sense into Gilbert, it was Anne._

_Taking Gilbert’s hat from the hook by the door, Anne went outside and walked steadily towards her friend, her boots crunching in the snow alerting him to her approach long before she stood before him. Looking up at her, Gilbert let all his guards down, permitting Anne to see how wrecked he was, his eyes rimmed red with tears, his mouth turned down in a wretched frown. Hoping he might see the affectionate concern and sympathy written in her own eyes, Anne placed the hat on Gilbert’s head, pulling it down to cover his cold ears. Then, she sat beside him on the bench, shuffling so close they were touching from arm to ankle, and waited._

_“It’s all my fault,” he sighed after nearly half-an-hour, his attention trained on his father’s gravestone._

_“Don’t blame yourself, Gil,” Anne said gently, bumping their shoulders together._

_“But I told Mary to invite him,” he argued, his emotions having moved past sorrow into self-effacing anger. “She’s been so happy about the baby and just wanted to share that with Elijah. So, I told her to write him, tell him to come visit, to come stay if he wanted! And she was thrilled when he responded that he would! And then he does this?! Robs us? Ransacks my father’s room! Then slips away in the middle of the night like a rat. This whole time…he was only intending to hurt us. Hurt Mary. His own mother!_

_“Gilbert –”_

_“Does Elijah even understand how lucky he is to have her?” Gilbert continued, now pacing back and forth, revealing the raw crux of his devastation._

_Seeing how utterly heartbroken Gilbert was over the insult and thoughtlessness committed against Mary had Anne’s own soul weeping for the pain her friend was suffering, but then, she always was particularly sensitive to the plights of one Gilbert Blythe. It was confusing how much she cared about him, how much her own feelings seemed so knotted with his, but perhaps it was the beguiling understanding that allowed for Anne to be able to set Gilbert to rights when he needed it, albeit, with much less grace and tact than she would like._

_“Clearly, he doesn’t, but you do!” she argued, standing as well and holding out a hand to stop her friend from his crazed circling. “And right now, I’m sure Mary is in the house ashamed to even face you because she thinks you blame her!”_

_“What?” Gilbert replied, flinching back as if Anne had struck him with another slate. “I would never –”_

_“So go inside and tell her, please,” Anne insisted. “Mary cares about you so much, Gilbert, and you’re both hurting for the same reason. You should be with each other now, not apart…not out here.”_

_Sighing, Gilbert turned away from Anne, just for a moment, before returning her imploring look. He nodded and released another deep breath, his features losing some of the tension and bitterness they’d held only a few minutes ago._

_“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her elbow, a rather comforting quirk they’d both become accustomed to since the afternoon when they’d met in Charlottetown before Gilbert had left on the Primrose. Able to relax under the brief pressure, Anne offered an understanding smile before urging Gilbert back to his house. Nodding, the young man did just that._

_He never knew that Anne stood there under the overcast November skies and watched him walk away, her silver eyes tracing his figure with an interest Anne couldn’t – wouldn’t – name, and that, for a moment, the redhead thought he cut a rather dashing figure just before he disappeared into his house…_

* * *

“Can we, please, talk about something else?” Gilbert asked, shaking the memory of that day from Anne’s mind. Seeing the pain it still caused him, not to mention the fresh sting the constable’s news would have brought, Anne resolved to do exactly as her friend suggested.

“Any idea on when we can expect the new Lacroix?” she wondered.

“Funny you should say that,” Gilbert said, “because Mary just had an appointment with Dr. Ward a few days ago. No exact date, of course, except that it will probably be some time in June, but Mary wanted to know if you’d be there when the happy day arrives.”

“Me?”

Gilbert nodded. “She wants a familiar face by her side,” he elaborated, amused at Anne's stunned expression.

“I…we-well I-I-I would be honoured!” she gushed, tickled to be asked something so special. “And what about you? Will you be delivering this baby, Doctor Blythe?” she teased, remembering how enthralled she’d been when Bash had told her, much to his brother’s blushing chagrin, that Gilbert had successfully delivered a breech baby during his year at sea. Even bringing it up now had Gilbert flushing, and Anne couldn’t help thinking that a bashful Gilbert was truly endearing.

“I will be staying far away from the birthing room this time,” he vowed.

“But you’re excited to become an uncle, aren’t you?” Anne asked.

“I can’t wait,” Gilbert confessed and then started telling Anne about the cradle he and Bash had been building and all the blankets Mary had been knitting. For the better part of half-an-hour the two friends chatted about the changes a baby would bring to the household, Anne offering up sage (if not always solicited) advice on how to handle fresh new lives, listing all of the possible scenarios Gilbert could expect to encounter, including nights he might not sleep for the baby’s crying, how to properly clean a bottle, and at what age they could expect the baby to crawl and walk.

“And don’t forget the terrible ailments they can come by,” Anne added, tone strangely haunted. “In fact, remind me to write you my recipe for gripe water. It will be a life saver if the new Lacroix becomes colicky.”

“How do you know so much about this? Babies, I mean?”

“Would you be surprised if I told you I’ve nursed seven in total?”

“Yes. And no. Was this before?”

“Mmm,” Anne hummed, the little noise Gilbert’s cue to cease the subject. Despite their friendship, there were still things Anne did not care to dwell on or share with anyone, not even a kindred soul like Gilbert. If the topic of her life before Green Gables ever did come up, Anne was usually as succinct as possible, never elaborating, or reflecting, only cutting to the point before moving on. It saddened Gilbert to think that Anne might be sporting a very deep hurt; that her past was able to wound her still despite her present peace and contentment. What was worse was that Anne never shared, and so there was never any hope of Gilbert being able to support his friend in the way she’d done for him so many times.

And he wanted to help Anne. Gilbert always wanted to help Anne.

“Come on,” he said, glancing at his watch before directing Anne off the swing. “I’ll walk you home.”

“I can find my own way home, thank you very much,” Anne said, though she did allow Gilbert to hold aside the boughs of the Silver King for her as they slipped through the willow and exited Hester’s Garden. “Besides, I thought you and Bash had a dinner meeting with Mr. Barry.”

For all that he had no desire to be a farmer, Gilbert was particularly proud of the harvest he and Bash had yielded last year. Their bounty had been so well received in the local markets that Mr. Barry had commissioned an order of the Blythe-Lacroix strawberry apples for his export to England in the coming harvest. If they were successful overseas it could mean a long-lasting partnership for the farm and financial security, something that was sorely needed especially with Mary expecting. Anne was thrilled at her friends’ good fortune, so much so that she didn’t despair long when they’d said they couldn’t attend her birthday dinner due to an invitation from Mr. Barry to discuss their new business venture.

“The dinner isn’t until six. I have lots of time to walk you home and get myself ready,” Gilbert said, though the way he shifted his gaze away from her gave Anne some doubt. Snagging the chain of his pocket watch (the task made simple as Gilbert's plaid jacket was undone, leaving his waistcoat susceptible to Anne's quick pick-pocketing) and taking the timepiece in hand, Anne looked at the clock's shining face and gasped.

“It’s quarter to five! Really, Gil, you have to get home. I don’t need –”

“I have to ask Mathew if I can borrow some cufflinks,” Gilbert interrupted quickly. “Elijah took those, too, and I won’t have anything to go with my best shirt. And I do need to make an effort with Mr. Barry.”

Though Anne wasn’t convinced of Gilbert’s excuse she did not pursue the subject further. She did like company while walking, and Gilbert's companionship was certainly one of her favourties. As they crossed the fields of their island the pair began discussing how best to revise and prepare for their college entrance exams set to take place at the end of June. This, of course, led to friendly banter over who would achieve the best scores, with Gilbert boasting exuberantly that he would surpass Anne in maths and science. Anne countered her friend’s confident joshing by saying she would surely have top marks in history and literature, even going so far as to critique how he’d put an odd emphasis on the line ‘there is another, not a sister,’ when he’d recited the _Bingen on the Rhine_ in class to prove her point. Before Gilbert could stammer out a defense of his reading, they were nearing Green Gables’ front door.

“Allow me,” Gilbert said politely, holding the door open for Anne. The gesture was so simple and sweet it brought Anne back to the day they’d first met when he’d held the door of the schoolhouse for her; the day she’d imagined, just for a moment, that a real knight had stepped out of the fog of the Haunted Woods to slay any dragons that stood in her path. Despite the few tragic hiccoughs in their history, Anne now understood that Gilbert really did want to be her friend from the start, and she offered him a smile as she crossed her home’s threshold, hoping he might read her sincere gratitude in the quirk of her lips.

“Mathew? Gilbert needs –”

“SURPRISE!”

The echoing choir of a dozen voices calling out at once so startled Anne that the girl unleashed an undignified shriek and jumped back. The house was filled with all her neighbours and friends, each dressed in their Sunday best and donning paper chain necklaces. Fresh cut pine boughs had been strung throughout the room, pinecones decoratively placed in the prickly greenery and filling the house with the sweet scent of the forest. The table was heaping with platters of sausage rolls, cold meats, two tureens of steaming vegetable soup, caramel apples, plum puffs, and little cakes topped with boiled icing. Spiced punch had been passed around, the many guests holding aloft cups of the cranberry coloured beverage in toast to the guest of honour.

There was Mathew and Marilla of course, leading the group along with Jerry. They were flanked by the Lyndes and one of their sons (whom Rachel kept fretting over by tugging at the man’s collar), the four Barrys, Ms. Stacy, all of the girls from school, Charlie and the two Pauls (Anne still wasn’t sure which was which, but both were creeping steadily towards Tillie with smitten affection in their eyes), Moody and his father, Minister McPherson, and Bash and the radiant mother-to-be, Mary.

And there was Gilbert, too, his hand steady at her elbow since she’d jumped back after being spooked by the surprise.

“Happy birthday, Carrots,” he whispered, very much intent for only her to hear the sentiment before she was carried away by her friends and promptly crowned with a wreath of silk flowers before the room erupted into a chorus of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ as Marilla presented her daughter with a cake coated in vanilla bean icing, a single candle sitting atop the culinary delight. Before she dared to blow out the candle, Anne looked about the room at all her loved ones and was overcome with too much feeling.

“I wish I could freeze time so I can keep everything exactly as it is right now and walk among this perfect memory forever,” she declared, Diana wrapping her arms about Anne’s shoulders and giving her an affectionate squeeze. “I’m sure I’ll never be so happy again. I never realized that one’s birthday wasn’t doomed to be a dark day of solitary celebration in cold corners by colder hearths with no cake, or gifts, or friends…” Anne trailed off, realizing where her mind had wondered and stopping herself from dwelling on the past. The present was what mattered. “Thank you all for being my kindred spirits; it’s all the gift I could ever need knowing I have so many.” And with that heartfelt speech (which had most eyes in the room misting), Anne blew out her candle, her wish secreted deep in her heart, and the group applauded as the party truly got underway.

Food was eaten with eager hunger as guests clumped together in various corners of Green Gables. Poor Ms. Stacy was trapped by Rachel Lynde who was enthusiastically pushing her meek, sallow looking son, Caleb, on the very not interested widow. The girls were huddled together by the hearth, giggling as they looked over at the boys who were trying to pretend they didn’t notice the staring, half-heartedly making plans for the last hockey game of the season before the Lake of Shining Waters would thaw. The Barrys were talking to the minister, bragging of the acceptance letters Diana had received from both Pompeux Hall and Madame Violette’s Maison des Moeurs, two of France’s prestigious finishing schools for young ladies. Mathew and Jerry kept to themselves, doing as Marilla bade as she ensured her guests were not left wanting for food or drink. Anne was happily chatting with Bash and Mary, her hands on Mary’s belly as she whispered poetry to the growing baby, whom Anne had taken to calling Cordelia as she was convinced it was a girl.

Upon Marilla’s announcement, after food had been eaten and conversation allowed to carry on for a little over an hour, Anne was paraded to the parlour where she was perched on Mathew’s high back wing chair so all could observe as she opened her presents.

She began with the pile of books that had been tied together with twine. Each volume was from one of Anne’s girlfriends, their inner covers carrying birthday wishes for the sixteen-year old. Ruby had gifted a fantastical novel called _The Wizard of Oz_ , the cover a garish clash of lime and tangerine colours with a lion wearing spectacles having Anne’s imagination spinning over what story lay in the pages. Diana’s book was _Flowers and their Pedigrees_ , the section on dandelions bookmarked, its special meaning known only to the best friends. _The Greater Inclination_ was a collection of short stories that had been the subject of celebrated discussion since its publication a few weeks ago, so naturally Tillie thought Anne would enjoy the tome. Jane warned Anne not to read _The Turn of the Screw_ while alone in the house, and Josie haughtily suggested that _Oliver Twist_ was the perfect book for Anne since she and the main character had so much in common.

The Barrys presented Anne with a tin filled with new hairpins, some with little pearls on the end for special occasions, while Minnie May gifted Anne her first (and hilariously bad) needlework, a cluster of colours that Anne thought might be flowers but that Diana whispered was supposed to be a cat. Mr. Barry also handed Anne a parcel and letter, both from Charlottetown. The parcel was a sketchbook from Cole, each page filled with such breathtaking watercolour images of Avonlea that Anne would have spent the rest of her party showing the art to her guests if Marilla had not insisted there would be time to admire such beauty later. The letter was from Aunt Jo, and besides housing words of congratulations, there was also two dollars with firm instructions that Anne was to use the money for a future visit to her good friends in Charlottetown.

The Lyndes gave Anne quilts (very practical), and the Pauls gave her monogramed handkerchiefs (clearly made by their mothers), while Moody said he’d dedicate a jig to her while brandishing his banjo (never noticing the spark of interest that alighted in Ruby’s blue eyes), and Ms. Stacy delighted Anne with subscriptions to both the _Halifax Gazette_ and _The Globe_ (so Anne would stop ‘borrowing’ hers).

Jerry was quite proud to give Anne the wood carvings he’d made himself, the pine figurines of a vixen and three cubs spurring the redhead to squeeze her friend’s hand and thank him for making her fox part of the day’s festivities. Charlie stuttered as he presented Anne with a bouquet of flowers, the lush cluster of snowdrops delicate and sweet smelling. Though others in the room seemed to take the gift as some subtle declaration on Charlie’s part (the girls gasped jubilantly behind their hands while Gilbert narrowed his brow over the exchange with begrudging concern), Anne simply thanked the boy for the gift and placed the bouquet atop her collection of new books without fanfare or fuss. Shoulders slumped, Charlie backed away towards the dining room, followed by Moody who tried to console the boy as Bash and Mary approached Anne to give their gift.

“It’s actually a request,” Mary said, one hand atop her pregnant belly and the other tucked in the crook of her husband’s elbow.

“Queen Anne,” Bash began with a dramatic bow, “would you do my wife and I the great honor of being godmother to our baby?”

The room erupted into overjoyed applause, Marilla biting her lip to keep from crying as she watched her daughter burst into tears, flinging her arms around the couple while chanting ‘Yes! Of course, yes! A thousand times yes, yes, yes!’ over and over as she seemed too overwhelmed to better articulate her humble happiness at the entreaty.

“Did you know?” Anne asked Gilbert, long after she’d released Bash and Mary from her embrace and the partygoers had directed their attention to Moody, Minister McPherson, and Mr. Lynde who had started playing the banjo, fiddle, and spoons respectively. Everyone was clapping or tapping their feet, the air of Green Gables vibrating with life.

“Mary asked me a few weeks ago if I thought you’d mind,” he confessed. “I told her you’d become an emotional mess and probably hug and kiss her within an inch of her life you’d be so happy. Thank you for proving me right.”

“Oh, hush!” Anne admonished, but there was no fervour behind her words. “We’ll be family, in a way,” she said, heart quickening as the idea of being connected to Gilbert beyond mere neighbours and schoolmates was strangely exhilarating. “Auntie Anne sounds nice, don’t you think?” she continued, unable to look at Gilbert who was staring at the girl rather intently.

If she had been brave enough to look up at her friend, Anne might have been able to tell that there was a question tickling around the corners of his mouth, but when the crowd around them whooped and hollered as the little band changed tunes to an upbeat jig, Gilbert bit the question back, tucking it away for another day.

“Here,” he said instead, handing his friend the gift he’d been keeping secreted behind his back for some time. It was another book, the cover a rich brown leather with intricate floral patterns stamped along the boarder in ebony ink. A gold plaque pasted to the cover was etched with two words near and dear to Anne’s heart.

“ _Jane Eyre_ ,” she sighed, tracing the title.

“I remembered you had to give Ms. Barry her copy back, and you said you didn’t have one of your own so –”

“I love it!” Anne exclaimed, spontaneously pressing forward to hug Gilbert, one arm going about his neck to pull him close while the other cradled the book to her chest, the tome pressed between them.

It surprised Gilbert to feel Anne so close, the pair having never truly hugged before. Anne had to stand on tiptoe to reach Gilbert’s neck, pulling him down just enough that her chin could hook over his shoulder, her cheek brushing against his neck. Her body was small, warm, and Gilbert was sure the scent of the forest was caught in her hair, but before he could press his nose to the tresses, or even return the embrace, Anne released him.

Without stopping to catch the flash of disappointment that crossed his hazel eyes, Anne started keenly flipping through the pages. She was surprised to find nearly each page had notes in pencil scratched along the pristine eggshell paper and arched a questioning brow at Gilbert.

“I may have read it,” he confessed teasingly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s your favourite,” he answered. “I thought I’d give it a read, make some notes, and then when you start reading it, we can talk about it.”

“Only you, Gilbert Blythe,” Anne huffed sweetly, confusing Gilbert as to what she meant, but he never did get the chance to ask as Anne turned towards the rest of the party, sidling up to Diana to show off her new book and then joining in with the others in clapping along with the band.

“I saw that, Blythe,” Bash teased, bumping his elbow against Gilbert’s arm. The eighteen-year old had the good grace to blush, his nose taking on a becoming shade of rose, but otherwise he kept mum about whatever it was Bash thought he’d witnessed.

Instead, Gilbert spent the remainder of the night watching Anne, memorizing how she smiled, and laughed, and twirled to the music, whispered in Diana’s ear, sneaked an extra piece of cake without Marilla’s noticing, and bit her lip after she requested a song from Moody. And all the while, Gilbert wondered. He imagined, and he pondered, and he wished, and most of all, he contemplated all of the ‘what ifs…’ that might happen if he could only find the courage to expose his heart to the intense, radiant, amazing sunshine that was Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

* * *

The party was still going, the music vivacious and lively, all her schoolmates bouncing and spinning and weaving about as none of them knew the steps to any proper dances. Sweating and flushed, Anne slipped out to the back porch for some much needed air and was not surprised to find Mathew already there, sitting on the stoop and smoking his pipe. Contently, Anne sat herself beside the man, unleashing a pleased sigh into the cool night, her head held back like a wolf’s ready to howl at the moon. For several peaceful minutes, the pair rested beside one another, their eyes cast out to the forest beyond their land.

“So, sixteen. That’s quite the accomplishment,” Mathew started, taking a few puffs of his pipe. “You’re a young woman now.”

“I suppose so,” Anne said, “but I don’t really know what that means. Not for me…not yet.”

“Well, I’m not sure if this’ll help you find the answers, but…uh…here.” Mathew had pulled out a baby blue satin pouch from his pocket and placed it gently in Anne’s hands.

“Mathew, the party was more than enough,” Anne said, though she was delighted to receive another gift, her fingers tracing over the cool material.

“The party was from Marilla,” Mathew confessed, leaving Anne momentarily flabbergasted as she had never once considered that the stern and practical Marilla would conceive of something as fanciful as a surprise birthday party. “Go on,” Mathew urged, his kind eyes vibrating with eagerness for Anne to open her gift. Loosening the drawstring, Anne tipped the pouch upside down and gasped when a cold chain of silver landed delicately in her hand.

“Oh, Mathew,” the young woman exhaled, enchanted with the elegant circlets of the bracelet, her grey eyes immediately alighting on the single charm donning the chain. It was a hat, a boater to be precise, not unlike the one Anne wore when she'd first arrived at Green Gables.

“I figure, you’ll collect more and more charms, for all the Annes you’ll become as you grow,” Mathew said, clutching his pipe between his teeth as he helped his daughter put the jewelry on her dainty wrist. “But this hat,” and his thumb grazed the silver boater which rested atop Anne’s pulse, “represents the original Anne that I met at the train station that blessed day that Fate brought us together.”

“And we became a family,” Anne finished, smiling up at Mathew before taking his hands in hers and squeezing, giggling when he squeezed back. “I love it.”

“I love you,” Mathew muttered, kissing Anne’s brow before returning his attention to the dark countryside.

“Original Anne,” the redhead whispered, admiring her charm. “You know, however many Annes I’ll become, original or new, young woman or not, I’ll always be your girl, Mathew. Forever,” Anne promised, curling up to her father’s side, her heart at ease with how her life had unfolded thus far, and anxious with an unbridled passion and enthusiasm for what was to come.

Mathew simply threw an arm across Anne’s shoulders and cuddled her close, the pair remaining in silent contentment under the green gables of their happy home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers!
> 
> So, that concludes the prologue-ish of Dear Anne. When I originally started drafting this work, I wanted to squeeze the entirely of Anne’s sixteenth birthday into one chapter, but as I started writing I realized there was just too much that was happening and so I split it up. A lot of what you’ve read in Chapters One and Two are setting up the rest of the story, so I wanted to make sure each moment, plot point, Chekov’s pocket watch, character set-up, foreshadowing, conflict and theme had their moment to shine. 
> 
> Primarily, I wanted to set up exactly where Anne and Gilbert are in their relationship. Something I did miss in S3 was that feeling that Anne and Gilbert were true friends, not just schoolmates with crushes on each other. I really wanted to experience that established connection and camaraderie, and that’s why the Hester Gray’s Garden scene is important (also, Hester Gray’s garden is a pretty special place to Anne and Gilbert, eh, book readers? *wink*). 
> 
> You might have noticed that Anne is quite content to remain ignorant of her past, with no desire to remember it, let alone delve into the mystery of her parents. Anne’s past was a plot element I adored in S3 and a deeper examination of it is what prompted my initial inspiration for this fic. So, while you don’t see Anne’s need to know just now, I promise it is coming, and that it will be important to the larger picture of this story. 
> 
> You may have also noticed that I adjusted my tags. Yes, someone is going to die. Yes, you can probably make a very good guess as to who it is (even though I may daydream that I have a chance of fooling you). And yes, it is necessary. I promise. I wouldn’t commit this death lightly, and it will have rippling and lasting consequences. I hope someday, you all will forgive me. 
> 
> But back to brighter things, for those who are curious, all of the books Anne received were indeed popular fiction of the time (except for the Wizard of Oz – that came out in 1900 and this fic takes place in 1899, but the author decided to use that spectacular device known as artistic licence). 
> 
> Next Chapter: the resurrection of the Take Notice Board
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, kudos-ing, commenting, bookmarking, subscribing, and simply enjoying the story. I hope you’ll be back for Chapter Three!


	3. A Quiet Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take Notices were all just a pile of prosaic nonsense if you asked Anne. Too bad no one asked.

_‘Dear Anne,_

_I wish I could promise you that life is all joy and splendidness, but I think you would know I was lying, and I have sworn to only be honest with you, sweet girl. What I can promise, however – and I sincerely hope it gives you comfort to know this fact – is that, whatever happens, tomorrow will always bring with it a new day with no mistakes…’_

* * *

Mrs. Lynde called it Spring Fling Fever.

Mary suggested that the world was simply twitterpatted.

Ms. Stacy assured it was a natural, biological phenomenon.

Marilla claimed it was all besotted nonsense.

Whatever it was, Anne was annoyed.

“Do you think there’ll be another post about Josie today?” Diana wondered, kicking at pebbles as they meandered lazily towards school.

“I think that’s as likely as the Pauls vying for Tillie’s attention via banal verses about her hair. Hopefully there won’t be a repeat of the tasteless haiku about her – _ahem_ – voluptuous figure.”

“I thought that one rather bold. A boy with a dash of daring isn’t a bad thing, you’ve said so yourself.”

“I said a boy who had the potential to be wicked but chose not to be was my ideal of a true gentleman. Whichever Paul wrote that poem about Tillie just alluded to her bosom with vulgar simplicity. It was crass, Diana."

“But Tillie didn’t’ seem to mind. In fact, I saw her take that notice down and tuck it into said crass bosom. I bet she’s hidden it in her vanity and reads it at night.”

The girls giggled at that, though Anne’s laughter was not as spirited as it might have been. She couldn’t help feeling on edge, not since she awoke that morning and noted it was the first day of spring. Normally, Anne anticipated and adored the changing of the seasons, but this year it seemed that all of her classmates had fallen victim to a strange hay fever that left them acting foolish and flirty, and all the parents of Avonlea could do was shake their heads fondly and blame the perplexing behaviour of their youth on the itch of the new season.

Anne blamed everything on the Take Notice Board.

The wretched thing had been blissfully bare for years, though when she’d first come to Avonlea school Diana had explained to Anne the intended purpose of the empty board attached to the back of the schoolhouse. Thirteen-year old Anne had thought the idea of a place where one could express their romantic intentions so publicly was thrilling, her young heart swooping with the idea of how lovely it would be to have an admirer post about her eyes, or her smile, or how he hoped to marry her someday.

Sixteen-year old Anne found the whole practice of the Take Notice Board decidedly off-putting, unsure if she’d want anyone to declare their feelings before even deigning her the dignity of discussing them with her first.

However, Anne’s opinion on the practice was not one shared by the rest of her classmates. The boys in particular seemed far too invested and entertained by this means of communication as it offered some anonymity, and therefore safety, in declaring their feelings for a peer that might otherwise not reciprocate. It was much easier to be brave on paper than in person, after all. As for the girls, they enjoyed the attention of being noticed, teasing one another and keeping tally of who had the most admirers (Tillie had a strong lead over Diana and Jane who were tied in second place).

Anne’s name had never once graced the board since its resurrection last Wednesday.

She told herself she was relieved, and most of the time she meant it.

Still, one little notice would be nice. However, as the Lord Almighty had seen fit in His wisdom not to answer Anne’s many prayers for stunning good looks, keeping her plain with freckles, a stick-thin figure, and atrocious red hair, the sixteen-year old had long ago accepted the fact that she was more likely to be struck by lightning than experience the ecstasy of true love. So, she strived to not feel too injured that there had not been, nor would there be, a notice for her. Besides, there were so many other important things to occupy oneself with other than silly boys and even sillier feelings.

There were now one hundred and seventy-one days left until Diana was cruelly ripped away from Anne. What was worse was that Mrs. Barry had become tyrannical in ensuring her daughter’s proper preparation for the marble halls of Parisian finishing school, insisting the girl not dawdle home from lessons so that she could practice her piano, decorum, and etiquette. Anne remembered how sullen Diana had been when she’d reported her mother’s instructions, and while she calmly claimed understanding for the sake of her friend, in truth Anne was devastated. Since her birthday, Anne was more likely to walk home with Gilbert than with Diana and while the boy’s company was not unpleasant it certainly wasn’t the same, not when Anne wanted to soak up every last minute she had left with her bosom friend like a tree drinks rays of sunshine.

Then there was the looming shadow of the prep classes for the college entrance exams.

While knowledge, and indeed, school, were not things Anne was frightened of, she could tell that the stress of achieving high marks on the examinations was already starting to play on her nerves, little headaches cropping up if she read for too long, or her fingers nervously twiddling her pencil as she contemplated geometry problems, or her bottom lip becoming swollen and raw as she nibbled on it incessantly while ruminating over Shakespeare. She hoped to earn a scholarship to help with her tuition and boarding costs, and only excellent grades would achieve such a goal. There was also the fact that, despite the cooling of their rivalry, Anne still intended to beat Gilbert fair and square – and dash it all! – but he did insist on being the smartest of all their classmates, making the challenge of besting him particularly exasperating.

Finally, there was the worry over Mathew who had caught a bad chest cold a few days after Anne’s birthday. He’d been confined to his bed for three days on doctor’s orders, and though he was up and about and doing his chores as if nothing was amiss, Anne noticed the way he had to take breaks in his stride to catch a breath, or how Jerry covered for him, not telling Marilla that he’d either had to start or finish many of Mathew’s duties on the farm. In fact, without Jerry’s help of late, Anne wasn’t certain Mathew would be able to keep up with preparations for the sowing season, and had made a mental note to ask Bash and Gilbert if they might be able to lend a hand when it was time to start tilling the land.

Thoughts of Green Gables and Mathew were soon brushed aside as the school came into view, and Anne quickly set her mind on all she would learn and it was with a swooping gladness that she entered the schoolyard. Side-by-side, Anne and Diana placed their milk on the thinning ice of the little creek and were prepared to enter the schoolhouse when they realized all of their friends were conspicuously gathered together at the back of the building where the Take Notice Board lay.

“Shall we go and look?” Diana muttered, eyes casting uneasily towards the gaggle of girls, their chatter indistinguishable but lively.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Anne answered back as she spotted Ruby waving them over. Resigned, the two friends joined their schoolmates to peruse over who had put their heart on the line that morning.

“I’ve been noticed!” Ruby squealed, tapping a gloved finger on the torn scrap of paper pinned to the board. “‘ _What I would give to have Ruby Gillis look at me with affection in her pretty eyes_.’ It’s finally happened! Gilbert’s taken notice at last!”

“That’s not Gilbert’s handwriting,” Anne objected with startling swiftness. She was far too familiar with the boy’s scrawl - having proofed his essays and editorials numerous times - and could easily tell that Ruby’s notice could never have come from Gilbert. At Ruby’s distressed sob, however, Anne realized too late that her bluntly spoken truth had absolutely shattered her sensitive friend’s heart. “But there’s no need to cry, Ruby!” Anne exclaimed, panicked. “Even if it’s not Gilbert, I’m sure whoever’s noticed you is a gallant and kind young man.”

“You were noticed, too, Diana,” Ruby sniffed, ignoring Anne’s attempts at cheering her up.

“Was I?” the dark-haired girl said in surprise, her face morphing into a grimace of dread as she scanned the several notices, seeking her name. “‘ _Diana Barry est tr_ _ès jolie’_ ,” she said softly, her heart leaping at the forward declaration, and a blush staining her nose since she knew which cheeky young man had dared to leave such a notice up for all to read.

“Ooh là là!” several of the girls cooed together.

“Diana has a French suitor,” Tillie crowed.

“Is he waiting for you to arrive in Paris?” Jane suggested with nervy forthrightness. “Maybe Diana isn’t off for finishing school at all. Maybe she’s going to France to become a bride.”

“Enough, Jane,” Anne grumbled, irked over her schoolmate’s foolishness.

“You know I wouldn’t be going anywhere except to Queens with all of you if I had a choice,” Diana added, pressing tight to Anne’s side for a moment to show her gratitude.

“Diana and Ruby aren’t the only ones who got noticed. See there?” Josie said snobbishly, pointing to the neatly written note in the centre of the board. “Can you believe someone posted such a thing?”

Anne quickly read over the missive that claimed someone had spotted Billy Andrews and Josie holding hands while walking home after the boys’ last hockey game of the season.

“Everyone will know now,” Tillie tittered. “Isn’t that just too terribly scandalous?!”

“The scandal will be when folks find out it was you who posted the thing,” Jane groused, directing a knowing narrowed glare at Josie who opened and closed her mouth like a fish as she tried to shake off her indignation with some sense of innocence. Jane did have a point, though, since it was a notice about Josie and Billy that had revived the board a week ago. Every day since, there had been a new notice about the burgeoning couple posted, each one having the same perfectly neat cursive.

“Aren’t you a sly one, Jane, since I’m sure its you who put this up,” Josie finally retaliated with her nose in the air. “Who else might have seen me strolling home with Billy? But I suppose this is all well and good. The clock is ticking girls, and we must all stake our claim on our paramours, the earlier the better.”

“Where does she come up with this stuff?” Jane mumbled, rolling her eyes so far back Anne thought the girl might faint.

“It makes sense,” Tillie agreed, admiring the six notices for herself strewn across the board. “At this age we should all be promised to someone.”

“Yes,” Josie agreed, far too self-assured as she turned her attention to Anne. “Wouldn’t want to see any of us winding up an old maid. Do you think that runs in a family, Anne?”

If looks could turn people into stone, it was unclear whether Anne’s withering glare or Diana’s ferocious scowl could have done the trick. Either way, Josie did flinch back a bit at the outrage she’d fueled in the pair and a tense blanket seemed to come over the group of friends.

“Not that I have any need to explain my suitors, potential or otherwise, to anyone,” Anne said, shoulders squared and chin held high, “but I admit here and now that my heart is committed.” The tittering Anne’s declaration caused amongst her friends was raucous, with questions overlapping at various levels of volume and the general consensus being a demand to know if Anne was telling the truth. “Of course, I am,” she declared. “When I turned sixteen I made a pledge that for all the days of my life, I, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, will be forever bound to the one true equal of my spirit. His name is as beautiful as the mating call of a wild goose, and his adoration for me reflects in every leaf and blade of grass and flower. He is mine and I am his, and henceforth, I declare myself his intended: the Bride of Adventure.”

And with that poetical testimony hanging in the spring air, Anne marched away from her friends as proud as she had ever been, head high and step sure. The rest of her classmates lingered behind at the board and watched their redheaded friend walk away, each with a pinched expression of perplexed stupefaction.

Until Ruby broke the silence with a huff before turning to Diana and hiccoughing pathetically.

“I _never_ understand what she’s saying!”

* * *

“There’s a very interesting article on prenatal development on page eighteen,” Ms. Stacy commented as she handed Gilbert her borrowed copy of _The_ _New Science_ , a fledgling medical periodical being published out of Redmond University in Kingsport and edited by an old school chum of hers.

“Thank you,” Gilbert said, eagerly taking the magazine and turning to the aforementioned page while he lounged on the edge of his desk.

Since Mary’s pregnancy announcement, Gilbert had become fascinated with any medical research to do with fetal progression and expectant mothers’ health. Just as she’d done with all his past subjects of interest (vaccinations, germ theory, and medical chemistry, to name a few) Ms. Stacy encouraged Gilbert’s curiosity with self-study, offering whatever resources she could find to aid his exploration into his vocation. While the young man had set his mind on becoming a doctor, the field of medicine was so vast that there were any number of specializations he could pursue. In truth, Ms. Stacy could see Gilbert succeeding in all of the known medical disciplines and was delighted he was committed to thoroughly exploring his options before embarking on a single vein of concentration.

Now, if she could only convince him to consider other hallowed halls of education wherein he could earn that sought-after degree, then Ms. Stacy was convinced she would have accomplished a job well done.

“My friend at Redmond was telling me the biology department will be looking for fine young minds to aid in their new research on disease transmission come the fall semester,” the teacher started casually, keen eyes watching as her student’s jaw clenched, a sure sign he was listening. “I have it on good authority that as long as the exam results are as high as I’ve bragged they will be, Professor Roberts will be more than happy to take on one of Avonlea’s brightest.”

“Ms. Stacy –”

“You could bring your own research; the cataloguing you’ve done of Mary’s pregnancy. Some of your notes are extremely enlightening, particularly the recipes you’ve collected to assist with common ailments for the expectant mother during gestation.”

“Most of those are Anne’s,” Gilbert said. “And they’re all made from common herbs and plants. They’re not even mentioned in any of my medical texts.”

“And isn’t that just brilliant!” Ms. Stacy gushed, reminding Gilbert so much of Anne that he couldn’t help but be fond of the woman. “You could be a pioneer, using nature to put man on the winning side of medicine. There is still so much we don’t know, and you could get us there.”

“But I can’t afford –”

“There are scholarships, young man, subject to academic probation of course, but I’m hardly worried about that with you. The Avery, as a matter of fact, is a full ride scholarship that I’ve every confidence you can win. I can’t promise the work to get it will be easy - pursuing a dream never is - but you must know that at Redmond the connections you could make, the opportunities you could find, the chance to be at the forefront of world changing medical breakthroughs, will be so much more than you could ever hope for at Queens! Gilbert, can you truly say ‘no’ to such a prospect?”

He didn’t want to.

Redmond was Gilbert’s dream college, the place he would go in an instant if he could because everything he hoped to learn that would make him the very best doctor was certainly for the taking beyond the gilded doors of the renowned institution.

But there were things holding him back.

Money, of course, was the main restriction. Tuition and board in Kingsport, Nova Scotia was just too expensive. Even with the inheritance his father had left him, Gilbert couldn’t hope to afford more than a single semester. There was the chance that the orchard’s harvest would be profitable and that the partnership with the Barrys would be able to continue, but Gilbert was too rational and cautious to blindly place every hope he had for his future on the fickle whims of Mother Nature and economics. He also refused to ask Bash for a loan, knowing his brother needed every penny he had to support his growing family.

Family was the other string keeping Gilbert tied to the island.

It had been such a healing to his shattered soul when Bash and Mary had moved into his house. Having been just with his father all his life, Gilbert didn’t really know how to be alone, and had become overwhelmed with the emptiness of it all when John Blythe died, literally running away from a darkness he feared would swallow him up to sail across the world in the hopes of finding a cure to his misery. Bash and Mary had been that miracle balm. Together, the couple had brought laughter and teasing, music and singing, kindness and tenderness back into Gilbert’s home and his spirit. Their love had created the new life growing inside Mary, a life Gilbert was so eager to meet and know. He was already completely devoted to his niece or nephew and the thought of going so far away when the baby wouldn’t even remember him being there was heartbreaking, especially when Gilbert so wanted to experience their first steps, first words, first everything.

And then there was Anne. There was always Anne.

She was going to Queens; it was as simple as that. The Charlottetown college boasted the best teaching program in the province, and with the associate’s degree in education Gilbert was certain she would earn – with honours – not only would Anne be ready to go out into the world and teach the voracious young minds of the island, but she would be able to, one day, go forward for her bachelor’s degree if that’s what she wanted. And what Gilbert wanted was to be by Anne’s side as she conquered each of her ambitions.

He wanted to join her at study group, explore Charlottetown together, find cozy bookstores and hole-in-the-wall cafes that served rich coffee and sweet tarts. He wanted to visit her at her boarding house, have her visit him at his, join the debate team together, and travel back to Avonlea as often as they wished. He wanted to be her escort at balls, and dance with her at Ms. Barry’s summer soiree, and take her to special lectures, or walks along the shore, or moonlight strolls through the woods of Victoria Park. He wanted to give her flowers at her convocation, and hold her hand in the dark, and touch her red hair, and maybe, if she consented…if she wanted him…maybe he could finally tell her how he felt about her…about them as a ‘we’, and an ‘us’, and together.

And because of those many reasons, though Queens wasn’t his ideal college, Gilbert had grown accustomed to the idea that he was bound for the small Charlottetown academy. True, the school couldn’t hold a candle to Redmond (Queens’ science department only boasted two disciplines and there was certainly no experimental research being conducted in their one paltry lab), but it was more than affordable, and it was close to everything and everyone he loved.

Gilbert didn’t know if he wanted to sacrifice all he had gained in order to pursue his ambitious vocation. Where once he would have jumped at the chance to see his dreams come true, now Gilbert had so many dreams that it was difficult to choose which ones to follow and which ones to store away. He wanted Redmond, and his medical degree, but he wanted his family, and he wanted Anne, all of it at once. He was selfish, he knew it, but Gilbert had to believe that the decision he would ultimately make would be the right one.

But he reasoned that, in order to make the right decision, he needed to ensure all of his viable options were given equal attention.

“Would you tell me more about the Avery, Ms. Stacy?”

Ms. Stacy bounced on her heels as she reported that Gilbert would have to achieve top marks in all of his exam subjects – again, not a feat she was concerned over – and would need percentages in the high nineties for his maths and sciences. He would require three letters of reference from notable persons to accompany his application. Ms. Stacy herself confessed to already drafting a letter, and suggested Gilbert ask Dr. Ward for the second, leaving the third testimonial up to her pupil to find. Finally, Ms. Stacy reported that Gilbert would have to write an essay of character, something no less than three pages that explained why he was interested in studying medicine at Redmond.

“I’m sure Anne could help you with that part,” the teacher suggested. “She has an excellent eye for the written word.”

As if the compliment had summoned her, Anne walked into the school at that very moment, her being fairly radiant with confidence. She smiled as Ms. Stacy approached her to ask about assisting Gilbert with his essay, but the young man didn’t hear a word of the conversation, his soul captured by the charm of Anne’s smile, the sheen of curiosity in her silver eyes, the warmth of her freckles, and the brilliant majesty of her red hair.

If by some miracle he did get into Redmond, Gilbert wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to go, not when there was Anne Shirley-Cuthbert spreading her magic across Prince Edward Island.

* * *

The girls were huddled together near the west side of the classroom so they could watch the boys play football in the slush while they ate their lunch in the warm and dry indoors. Perched on desks, chairs, and floors, the conversation drifted from inquiries over how families would be spending Easter, to plans for Diana’s birthday tea, to critiques of the latest dress patterns advertised in _Eaton’s_ catalogue. But mostly, the girls gossiped about the Take Notice Board and, by extension, boys.

“Why are they so maddening?” Ruby wondered, nose pressed against the glass as she watched their classmates roughhouse in the yard, her eyes darting between Gilbert and Moody as she traced hearts in the fog on the glass left by her breath.

“I wouldn’t bother, Ruby,” Anne said as she nibbled on a tart. “Boys bring nothing but problems.”

“I guess that means Tillie must suffer from double-trouble since she has a two-boy problem,” Jane teased, winking good-naturedly at her friend.

“It’s not a problem,” Tillie fired back, smiling smugly while the rest of the girls laughed. Well, all but Ruby who gasped wetly before stomping away to the cloakroom, her cheeks already damp with tears.

“I’ll go,” Anne said before any of the rest could take chase. As she headed to the cloakroom, some of the boys were trudging in from outdoors, their clothes muddy and hair sticky with sweat. Most smelled and Anne could only imagine what their mothers would have to say when they returned home.

“Hello, Anne,” Charlie Sloane greeted, his long, lean frame pausing in the middle of the aisle.

“Hi,” she answered absently, sidestepping the boy without a glance, never spotting how utterly dejected he looked at her snub. Finding Ruby sequestered on a bench in the corner of the cloakroom and crying herself into a frenzy, Anne sat beside her friend and hugged her tight until the blond managed to control her sobbing.

“I just don’t understand!” Ruby sniffed, eyes puffy and face ruddy from her wails. “We’re of age now, but Gilbert hasn’t made any advances. What’s holding him back?”

“I don’t know –”

“But you must, Anne!” Ruby insisted, clutching her friend by the shoulders and giving her a little shake. “You’re good friends. You both talk together so often and you walk home almost every day. Surely he’s said something to you.”

“Honestly, Ruby, he’s said nothing,” Anne assured.

“Is there someone else?”

“Ruby!” Anne admonished, surprised the girl would think so little of Gilbert that he’d string her along whilst pursuing another. The truth was, Anne didn’t believe Gilbert had any intentions towards Ruby, or any other girl in their class. Besides the fact that Gilbert was far too studious to be concerned with matters of the heart, Anne was convinced that Gilbert was simply too serious for Ruby, and Ruby was too silly for Gilbert. The pair were horribly mismatched and if Ruby would only accept that Anne was sure the girl might be able to find the true great romance of her life.

“Ruby?”

Startled, both girls looked over at their intruder.

“Oh, hello, Moody,” the blond greeted hurriedly, trying to wipe her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands, but only managing to make herself look more of a mess.

“Here,” the boy said, handing her a handkerchief. “For your poor eyes.”

“Thank you,” Ruby replied, almost shy as she took the soft muslin and blew her nose. Offering a kind smile, Moody backed away, awkwardly tripping over his own feet and nearly toppling into the classroom. Anne waited until she was sure the cloakroom was empty before turning back to Ruby.

“Feeling better?” she asked when the blond finished dabbing at her face.

“No,” she huffed. “I just want to know his intentions. What are his plans? Where do I fit into them? How does he see our future? Won’t you ask him for me, Anne?”

“Don’t you think those are things you should be asking him?” Anne suggested, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

“All I want is some assurance. One notice, it’s all I ask. Please?”

And maybe it was because Anne thought of Ruby as the younger sister she never had, or because she’d sworn that if she ever made friends she would support them no matter what, or because she was just a sucker for big blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but whatever it was, the redhead agreed, almost instantly regretting her decision but unwilling to back out now that she’d given her word.

The rest of the afternoon dragged on, each minute increasing Anne’s nerves as she tried to sort how she’d go about approaching Gilbert. It irked the redhead that the whole of the day’s lessons were lost on her, her mind insisting on drifting towards her friend across the aisle. His body was hunched over his notebook, concentration completely taken by the equations they’d been set to solve, and Anne found herself both in awe of the boy’s dedication and jealous that he could focus so absolutely while she was languishing in an unexplainable sea of perplexing reluctance and nervous anticipation. How on earth was Anne supposed to beat Gilbert fair and square if she couldn’t make her brain cooperate?! The passing time continued to see Anne grow more and more agitated until her knee was bouncing so violently Diana had to ask her several times if she was alright. Finally, Ms. Stacy dismissed the class and Anne rushed for the cloakroom, fumbling so badly to button up her jacket that by the time she was ready to leave, everyone else had slipped out the door and into the mild afternoon. All but Ruby, of course, who was giving Anne a desperately pleading look.

Looking out the window, Anne could see Gilbert’s figure not far off. Determined, she swallowed every confusing feeling down and forced herself to go forward with the promise she’d made to Ruby. Dashing down the stairs, Anne took chase.

“Gilbert!”

The eighteen-year old stopped and whipped around, Anne nearly colliding into his chest, she’d been running so fast to him. Clearing her throat and straightening her hat, Anne looked at her friend, prepared to give the speech she’d been practicing the whole afternoon in her imagination (a competent argument on all of Ruby’s fine merits without blatantly giving away the girl’s crush), and found every word withering on the tip of her tongue.

Just as Anne was ready to speak, the wind had come rolling along the field, mussing Gilbert’s curls and making the collar of his jacket twist teasingly against his jaw. A jaw that was becoming a bothersome distraction of late, not to mention the fact that looking at his jaw inevitably led Anne to look at his lips. When the tip of his tongue peeked out to wet them, Anne took in a stuttering breath, her heart leaping brutally against her ribs, and suddenly words were no longer a thing she could remember how to use.

“Did you forget what you wanted to say?” Gilbert asked, brows crinkled and lips twisting up into one of his endearing smirks. Seeing that expression, the teasing one she was so often on the receiving end of, made Anne feel normal enough for a moment that she was able to press on.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the old Take Notice Board is active again,” she began, relieved at how casual, if a bit rushed, she sounded.

“Take notice?” Gilbert echoed, shaking his head, clearly unaware that there was such a thing attached to the back wall of the school he’d been attending since he was a child. It almost made Anne laugh to think that Gilbert was one of the smartest people she knew and yet he could be utterly ignorant of the things happening around him. But perhaps that was why they were friends, so _she_ could make sure he pulled his nose out of a book every once in a while and experience the magnificent world that was buzzing around them.

“Yes, take notice,” she said. “As in you post on the board when you want to let someone know you’ve taken notice of them. It’s a way to make a casual declaration.”

“To someone you like?”

“Exactly!” Anne exclaimed, pleased Gilbert was catching on and feeling confident as his hazel eyes grew wide with intrigue and comprehension. “And it’s wonderful, you see, because a notice is not so pointed as to be alarming and yet not so vague as to be misunderstood.”

“A post in advance of proper advance,” Gilbert added, a bemusing twinkle alighting in his eyes as he stared at Anne, taking a step closer and smiling as if she’d offered him the moon on a platter.

“Yes,” she breathed out, swallowing thickly as she tried to remember why she was telling Gilbert about the board in the first place. “Because all these little notices matter. Especially when you want to let someone know that you’re thinking ahead.”

“To your future…together?” Gilbert supplied, his voice changing into something fragile. Looking up at him, Anne was suddenly struck with how vulnerable Gilbert appeared, his face open and honest, as if he were unsealing his heart and exposing everything unsaid between them.

Because there were novels of unspoken emotion that had settled between the pair over the years, things so secreted away in metaphors and subtext that Anne was only just starting to understand what it all meant: why Gilbert looked at her so gently, why he sought her out so frequently, why he insisted on being her best friend even when she was sure there were times she didn’t deserve it. And then there was Anne’s own unacknowledged heart, the small, tender part of her spirit that yearned to be near Gilbert all the time, that knew a truth Anne didn’t even allow herself to hope for.

Because when Gilbert spoke of ‘futures’ and ‘together’, Anne was certain he was not speaking about Ruby.

That awareness was jolting, like being struck by lightning. It was with a fierce shudder that Anne understood, in a single second of clarity, that Gilbert was asking Anne if she wanted a future with him; if she wanted him to take notice of _her_! And what was most terrifying of all was that, for that same single second, Anne did.

“Yes,” the redhead sighed, and whether it was in answer to Gilbert’s question or to acknowledge the deep truth she’d finally allowed herself to see, Anne would never know.

“So…” Gilbert started, slow and a bit shy, but with trepidatious optimism, “you’re suggesting…Anne, do you want me to post?”

“If you’re interested in Ruby, let her know before someone else stakes their claim!”

The words erupted from Anne with all the ugly force and violence of a volcano explosion. The moment she said them she wanted to swallow them back up, feeling ill as she watched Gilbert’s face crumble, his hazel eyes going dull with disappointment, his brow furrowing with shame, and his mouth turning down from the hopeful smile he’d been sporting into a grim line of gloomy acceptance. Anne hadn’t realized how joyful Gilbert had looked before until she had to behold his dejected expression and she wanted to kick herself for making her friend sad. “Gil I-I-I’m—”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” he interrupted, managing to keep his composure as he looked Anne in the eye, again letting her glimpse a twinkle of his true feelings before bolting the door and locking her out, not that Anne could blame him. “But I’m not exactly a take notice kind of guy.”

“Oh,” was all Anne could mumble, nodding her head in understanding, her conscience heavy with regret for the entirety the whole situation. Desperate to walk away from this uncomfortable mistake of a conversation, Anne turned back to the schoolhouse so she could break the news to Ruby. Her steps were slow and she felt as if she were trudging through soft sand, unable to hurry herself along, sad for Ruby, and cross with herself, and feeling too many things at once for Gilbert.

“Anne?”

Hearing him say her name had the redhead whipping around as swiftly as he had when she’d called out to him at the beginning of this whole disastrous discussion. Her heart was beating wildly as she waited for Gilbert to speak as he seemed to be having the same difficulty with words that she’d suffered earlier. When she was about to tease him and echo if he’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say, Gilbert finally spoke, his words carrying across the schoolyard with definite clarity.

“When the right person comes along…someday…whenever that is, I’ll just know…and I’ll tell her so myself.”

And since there was nothing Anne could say to that, she simply watched as Gilbert turned from her and walked away, keeping her gaze trained on his retreating figure until he was a blur lost in the thick of the Haunted Woods, disappearing in much the same way he’d first appeared in her world three years ago.

And though Anne knew Gilbert was only going to his house, a place she could walk to and from with her eyes closed, she missed him. Would it be odd if she chased after him? If she told him she didn’t mean what she’d said about Ruby? If she hinted there was another girl who’d be thrilled if he’d take notice of her would he understand? Would he post?

“Oh, Anne!” Ruby squealed, having dashed from the schoolhouse to join her friend in the yard, gripping Anne’s hand and squeezing it so tight it hurt. “I watched everything from the window!”

“Ruby, I’m sorry but he’s not going to notice,” Anne said, hoping her tone was gentle and consoling. Much as she didn’t think Ruby and Gilbert suited that didn’t mean she wanted to see her friend get hurt. But hurt she would be as Gilbert had made it clear he had no designs on the young blond.

“That can’t be true,” Ruby gushed, surprising Anne when the girl continued to smile like a love-struck fool rather than burst into hysterical tears. “Weren’t you looking at his face when you were talking about me? Didn’t you see? His eyes were so full of romance that I was certain I would die happy right on the spot!”

“His eyes?” Anne echoed weakly, remembering how they had twinkled as brightly as any star before she’d quashed all that effervescence with the mention of Ruby’s name. The poor girl had no idea that the romance she’d spotted wasn’t for her! “Ruby, you’re wrong. It wasn’t –”

“I firmly believe that his reluctance to post a notice is a sign that he is waiting for a much more romantic way to approach me with his feelings. Thank you, Anne! I feel better now, and I promise to be patient. Or who knows, maybe I’ll take a page from your book and be daring. Oh! Maybe _I_ should post about _Gilbert_!”

And with that idea now hanging in the air, Ruby kissed Anne on the cheek and bid her farewell, hurrying for home.

Anne didn’t know how long she remained in the schoolyard, the wind nipping at her legs and the lonely cry of a heron echoing in the distance all the company the redhead had as her mind and heart tried to process the two incredibly confounding conversations she’d just had. Without her consent, Anne’s feet walked her to the Take Notice Board, the hateful placard dotted with even more scraps of paper than it had been that morning. 

There was another notice written in French for Diana. Jane had managed to garner three verses extolling the charms of her chestnut curls, Tillie’s usual daily notices from the Pauls were there, and someone had even been so bold as to comment that Ms. Stacy’s dress that day had been most becoming. Josie’s notice was still pinned dead centre, of course, and someone had copied Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s _Sonnet 43_ but had not disclosed who it was for.

There was nothing for Anne.

And though she was adamant she never wanted to find a notice addressed to her on that hateful board, Anne couldn’t help remembering how Gilbert had confessed he wasn’t someone who would use a notice to declare his feelings, which led the girl to thinking about her own feelings, which she didn’t care to do, and so she turned her back on the board and started marching for home in a foul strop, declaring to the trees that Marilla was absolutely right about everything to do with boys and notices.

It was all just a lot of silly besotted nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all agree that S3E1 of Anne with an E was as close to perfect as an episode could get, not least because of that titillating ‘Take Notice’ conversation between Anne and Gilbert. 
> 
> Well now, this chapter has set the groundwork for some spectacular UST, and fluff, and angst for our starring couple, so you can certainly expect to see a combination of all three in the coming chapters. It has also laid out what will become both a character and relationship conflict for our beloved pair: the question of college, specifically, how they may have to endure a long-distance romance. If you’ve read my other work, The World Before Me, then you’ll know I adore Gilbert Blythe and something I find truly fascinating to explore is how he makes decisions. After reading this chapter, it’s easy to understand why he may give up an opportunity like Redmond, but at the same time, he still wants to know the option is there. I will say, our boy has a bad habit of not making a choice until the last possible moment, and since the author believes in staying true to character…let’s just say Gilbert won’t disappoint.
> 
> I still feel, and so you may as well, that the chapters have been mostly set-up thus far (as well as a summary-ish of certain episodes/scenes from S3). I promise, there is a larger story on the horizon, I’m just taking my time getting there. Also, the primary focus of this fic is Shirbert, and I’m pretty sure we can all agree that the Shirbert thus far has been pretty tasty. 
> 
> You might have noted there’s a little bit of world building being planted in this chapter, as well. After all, I didn’t mention Redmond or Kingsport without the intention of eventually going there. As to what purposes we’ll be traveling to Redmond…well, you’ll just have to keep reading, won’t you?
> 
> And for the curious among you, it was Charlie who copied Sonnet 43 and posted it on the board for Anne, but he chickened out and didn’t sign either his or her name to the paper. Poor boy, he does try.
> 
> Next Chapter: dance practice! Also known as that time Rachel Lynde organized the sexual awaking of Anne and Gilbert and had no idea.
> 
> For those who have been following along, reading, kudos-ing, commenting, bookmarking, and subscribing, I thank you again, and again. You are all very important people to me.
> 
> Cheers!


	4. The Dashing White Sergeant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The youth of Avonlea learn how to dance

_‘Dear Anne,_

_One day a veil will be lifted from your vision and you will at last be gifted with an epiphany of the world and of yourself. No matter how jarring, how surprising, or even frightening, do not turn away from these truths. We all must read our Book of Revelation and face with grace and bravery the despair and elation such a scripture may bring us…’_

* * *

Diana thrilled that her heart was beating with the same speed as her fingers when they flew across her piano keys while playing the presto movement of 'Summer' from Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_. The piece was meant to evoke a thunderstorm, and certainly the way Diana’s body felt alive with electricity, her skin still tingling at every spot that Jerry had so tenderly caressed, the seventeen-year old was positive her very soul was alive with the power of a tremendous hurricane.

“Are you alright?” Jerry wondered, his body spooned snuggly behind Diana’s, his lips pressing feather-light kisses to her bare shoulder, the strap of her chemise having slipped to her elbow when she’d allowed the boy to undo the buttons of her gown and pull her arms through the puff sleeves. Her skirt remained in place, and the chemise hadn’t been discarded during their tryst, but Jerry’s shirt and vest were lost somewhere in the haystack and one of Diana’s white stockings had rolled down her thigh and was pooled at her ankle.

“Bien, cher,” she whispered, taking the hand at her waist and kissing the centre of his palm before shamelessly moving it so that it cupped one of her breasts, sighing when Jerry gave the flesh a firm squeeze and continued peppering gentle kisses on the back of Diana’s neck.

Sequestered in the hayloft of the Cuthbert’s barn, Diana felt as if she and Jerry were the only two people in the world. And for at least another hour, they would be. Anne wasn’t due back from her prep lessons yet, and Jerry had rushed to finish his chores early for the express purpose of rendezvousing with Diana in the same haystack that had seen many a tumble of the young couple’s before. And this particular meeting was special as it was the first time they’d been able to be with each other since Diana’s birthday the previous week.

When the dark-haired girl had climbed the ladder to reunite with Jerry, she’d been touched to find the boy had laid out his coat for her to sit on, presenting Diana with a porcelain figurine of a white poodle. She knew the gift must have cost him a great deal, and she thanked Jerry profusely, first with words, then a kiss, then another, and another, until soon the statuette was lost in the sea of hay just as surely as Diana and Jerry were lost to their passion.

Diana always felt so alive in Jerry’s arms, the boy making her believe, just for a moment, that it was possible for her to be free of the gilded cage her parents had forced around her. And while it might be true that some of her attraction for him was because he was someone her mother and father would never approve of, Diana had come to treasure Jerry very much for the sweet, sensitive, and cheeky lad he was. He wasn’t shy to say what was on his mind, unbound by the conventions of polite society and silly manners that could make understanding oneself so frustrating. Diana admired that about him, even when he said things that threw her for a loop.

“I would marry you, you know,” Jerry whispered, Diana going stiff in his embrace. Woodenly, she turned around to look into the dark brown eyes of her sweetheart and see the truth of his feelings for herself. “I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“It surprises me,” Diana corrected. “And frightens me a little.”

“Do you think I would hurt you?”

“Never!” Diana declared vehemently, moving so she was facing Jerry properly and could take his hands in her own, holding them tight atop the hay between them. “Why do you want to marry me?”

“Because I love you,” Jerry said, and though he meant every word there was a tint of shame that poisoned the declaration. “I know I’m not good enough for you—” his self-deprecation was halted with a fierce kiss from Diana, one that was messy and desperate, with tongues and teeth, as if she were punishing him for thinking so ill of his worth.

“I have to hear enough of that tripe from my family day after day. I don’t want to hear it from you as well,” Diana said, shuddering to recall the unkind things she’d overheard her parents say about many people in Avonlea that they considered different, some of their criticisms aimed at those Diana cared for with all her heart. “Do you really love me?”

“Oui! Yes!” Jerry exclaimed. “But I know it is…the way Anne puts it, you know?”

“Tragical?”

Jerry nodded, and Diana couldn’t help but agree. After all, the pair came from such different families.

In fact, Diana remembered with perfect clarity the day last fall when, having slipped in the gravel of the Baynard’s uneven drive while accompanying Cook for some rabbit meat, Diana had twisted her ankle and needed to remain with the Baynards while Cook went for help. That evening had been as exhilarating as it was eye-opening, with Diana witnessing true laborious poverty for the first time as she discovered that Jerry and his thirteen siblings slept in the same room on straw mattresses on the floor rather than beds. Dinner also had to be carefully rationed to make up for the surprise guest, but there was no malice against Diana for it. It was so unlike how Mr. and Mrs. Barry would behave in the same situation. Diana knew that a poor vagrant in need at her family's door would be given some coins for the trouble of a twisted ankle rather than welcomed to the family table to dine. What Diana had experienced with the Baynards was such selfless reception that she’d been humbled for weeks afterwards. She was moved by the fact that the Baynards had little more in the world than each other, but for them it was enough.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jerry started, pulling Diana from her musings, her fingers absently combing through his dark hair. “I’m going to join the army.”

“Why?!” Diana cried.

“Because there is a good wage, and opportunity to advance, become someone important.”

“Jerry –”

“There’s a commission, too. Money that can be used to provide for a family…for a wife.”

“Is that what you really want, mon cher? To be a soldier? Tell me the truth,” Diana demanded gently.

“Non,” he admitted easily, pressing his brow to hers in a tender caress.

“What are your dreams?” Diana asked, realizing she never had before.

“I like working the farm,” Jerry confessed. “I like making things grow. Mr. Cuthbert and I have just planted the potatoes, and carrots, and radishes. They’ll start to sprout soon. My dream is to have my own land, with my own house, large enough that everyone has a room of their own.”

“That’s a lovely dream,” Diana complimented, voice trembling. “You’d need a wife to help run a house that big, and to help with the farm besides…Jerry I don’t know…I couldn’t—”

“I’d only want my wife to be happy,” Jerry insisted, holding Diana’s hands tight to his bare chest so she could feel the steady beat of his heart. “If she wants to help on the farm, or run the house, or play piano concerts all over the world I wouldn’t care as long as she only does what makes her happy.”

“Be realistic, Jerry.”

“Non!” the eighteen-year old argued. “You asked for my dreams and I’m telling you. Join me in them, Diana, please? Just for a while?”

And because she did adore him so, Diana complied, talking with Jerry as they imagined what the house would look like, and what vegetables they would grow, and if they would plant an orchard of peaches or apples, and exactly how many bedrooms this house of dreams would have.

“Need enough for the little ones, eh?” Jerry said with a wink, but his jest was not met with a returned chuckle. Instead, Diana sat up abruptly, holding her dress close to her chest as her face dissolved into a panicked pout before smoothing into a worried countenance.

“What if…what if your wife didn’t want children?” she asked tenuously, keeping her eyes trained on Jerry so that she could know the truth of his heart, even if his words might report something different. She could see her remark had surprised him and the question lingered between them for a long silent while. Finally, Jerry sat up beside Diana and cupped her chin, pulling her close for a sweet kiss that she did not object to, wondering if this kiss was goodbye. When they pulled apart, Diana held her breath and waited.

“As long as she does what makes her happy, I am happy as well,” Jerry said, his tone raw and honest.

It was almost enough to have Diana sobbing against Jerry’s chest, her whole being awash in relief. She truly didn’t know if she did or did not want to be a mother. The idea of having babies was so odd a concept that Diana truly couldn’t fathom the reality, and yet all those things, being a bride and wife and mother, was the future her parents had planned for her almost since the moment of her birth. All choice had been lost to her because of her station, and gender, and privilege, and now that she was old enough to understand that what was expected of her didn’t have to mean it was what she wanted, the seventeen-year old was desperate for any assurance that she still had some agency in the fate of her own life. And now she knew that with Jerry, no matter what, it was indeed _her_ choice; he wouldn’t steal that from her.

Diana knew then that with Jerry Baynard she would always have her freedom. He would never seek to keep her trapped in a cage. He wanted her to spread her wings and soar. All he asked was that she come back to him.

Consumed with such adoration for the young man at her side, Diana tipped forward and crashed her mouth against Jerry’s, realizing that what she felt for him was strong, and powerful, and someday soon she’d be able to name it and say the words to him. Until then, Diana would go on kissing Jerry in the hayloft, letting him hold her tight, and cover her with his body, and touch her bosom, and she'd touch his chest in return. He’d surprised her so well that day that she hoped, when next they could meet, she’d be able to surprise him.

And remembering what Mrs. Lynde had in mind for Queen Victoria's birthday celebrations in just a month’s time, Diana was certain that, if nothing else, she’d at least be able to surprise Jerry with a dance. 

* * *

The practice was going…not disastrously, but certainly not well.

“Let’s take a short break,” Mrs. Lynde conceded, needing a few minutes to collect her own temper because if she had to tell Jane Andrews _one-more-time_ to cease leaping about the room like a deranged goat, she was sure she was going to smash something through a window.

The students were eager to disperse, many of them grumbling, some bemoaning that it was ridiculous that they needed to learn something so silly as dancing for the Queen’s birthday holiday.

“It is a right of passage!” Rachel Lynde rebuffed, not shy about sticking her nose into a conversation she was most certainly not invited to join. “The young people of Avonlea have been leading the Dashing White Sergeant at the Queen’s birthday picnic since I was a girl. It’s tradition and you _will_ learn it. We just need more practice.”

Anne wasn’t so sure that Mrs. Lynde’s stubborn fortitude would be enough to inspire her classmates to take the dance lessons seriously. Even she was struggling to see the point of it all, striving to remember how many steps to take in the round and when she was supposed to give her partner her left shoulder. It didn’t help that, in her set, she was squished between the two Pauls who were bitter at not being paired with Tillie, the girl making a show of having a grand time with Mrs. Lynde’s son, Caleb, and Gilbert. No doubt, she was exaggerating her good humour to entice jealousy within the Pauls, and from how hard they’d gripped Anne’s hands during the whole practice, the redhead believed her coy friend’s plan was working. Great for Tillie, but not so great for Anne.

As she meandered about the classroom, Anne’s eyes caught on Gilbert, the boy standing in a corner and staring at the empty practice space as if he were trying to catalogue the steps so he might perform them well once they returned from their break. They weren’t in the same set, so Anne couldn’t say how good or bad Gilbert was at dancing, but she couldn’t imagine he was dreadful, not when he was so good at most everything else. Still, the idea of Gilbert Blythe’s Achilles’ heel being dancing of all things was humorous, and when she let loose a little snort of mirth the young man’s concentration was broken and he looked up at Anne.

The humiliating ‘take notice’ conversation was nearly a month behind them, and the two friends had moved on, only suffering one day of awkwardness before a surprise spelling bee saw the pair locked in a splendid competition that was forced to end in a draw, returning the friends to their comfortable status quo. Even their walk home that afternoon had been relaxed, with Anne insisting they carry on the spelling bee privately until one of them finally lost.

So far, the game was still on.

Anne was relieved that her oblivious tactlessness hadn’t ruined the friendship, for she truly did treasure Gilbert’s camaraderie. In fact, though she was still masterfully ignoring the strong feelings coursing through her heart for the boy, Anne knew that, romantic attachments or no, it was Gilbert’s partnership that she valued above all else. She was certain no romance was worth losing Gilbert’s companionship, despite the conflicting internal objections that sometimes kept her up at all hours of the night. Anne was certain she could keep control of her heart’s silly feelings, even if it was difficult at times, especially when Gilbert smiled at her like he was currently.

The grin was one of Anne’s favourites; closed lipped and listing up towards the right, making the dimple on his chin seem to wink. It was a grin so simple and fun that Anne couldn’t help returning the gesture. With a rueful shake of his head, Gilbert seemed to be saying that he’d caught the slight against his dancing skills in Anne’s snort, and he fully intended to prove her wrong, a playful defiant sparkle warming his hazel eyes. Meeting the challenge, Anne shrugged her shoulders as if to say he was more than welcome to prove himself on the dancefloor, intending on approaching him to suggest that if he tripped over his own two feet then he’d have to clean up her revision notes from their prep lessons for the next week, but was stopped abruptly when someone gripped her hand hard.

“Anne! Come quick!” Diana pleaded, her voice desperate as she pulled her friend towards the cloakroom. “You have to talk some sense into her.”

“Who?”

But Diana didn’t answer as the moment they entered the cloakroom Anne could see who needed her help. All the girls were surrounding dear Ruby who was curled up on a bench, her entire body shaking as if she were a jittery rabbit cornered in a fox’s den.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking into her friend’s petrified blue eyes.

“Are you feeling faint?” Josie wondered.

“I…wh-what…oh! What if I’m pregnant!” Ruby shrieked, one hand digging into her pinafore pocket to pull out a handkerchief Anne recognized as the one Moody had loaned her weeks ago. Nervously, Ruby twisted the muslin in her hands, wringing it back and forth so viciously Anne was sure it would rip.

“Ruby?” Anne started calmly, knowing it would do no good to alarm her troubled friend with a fretful tone. “Why do you think—”

“My mother told me so! She said if I so much as go near a boy I might get pregnant, and that if a boy touches me then I’ll certainly get pregnant. They’re making us hold hands during that wretched dance! My mother would never lie to me, so I must be pregnant!” Ruby cried out, and then her eyes went wide in incomprehensible fear. “You all could be!”

It was difficult to contain her laughter, but Anne managed to reel in her chuckles at the ridiculous statement, turning to her group of friends expecting to see similar concealed amusement and was shocked to find all of them staring down at their hands in abject horror.

“How can this be?” Jane cried, wiping her palms down the front of her pinafore.

“But who’s the father?!” Tillie demanded desperately, holding her hands to the light as if she might divine a name across the skin.

“How could Mrs. Lynde let this happen?!” Josie demanded fiercely.

“But that’s not how you get pregnant!” Anne objected, her protest drawing all eyes to her. “Ruby, I’m sorry, and I mean no disrespect to your mother, but touching, at least, holding hands, isn’t how a woman becomes pregnant.”

“Are you sure?” Ruby asked at the same time as Josie snidely wondered, “And how would you know?”

“For goodness sake!” Anne rebutted. “Josie, you’ve been holding Billy’s hand for months, and Tillie’s allowed both Pauls to escort her to church arm-in-arm, and Ruby, don’t you remember when Gilbert helped you up that time you tripped outside your house after the fire _three_ years ago? You certainly didn’t get pregnant then.”

“But I wasn’t a woman then!” Ruby protested through a hissed whisper, reminding Anne that she’d been the last among their peers to start her menses.

“Fine, but you certainly were a woman the day we played spin the bottle, remember? And what is kissing if not another – dare I say, more intimate– way of touching? And none of us here got with child.”

“Anne’s right,” Diana said, her voice strong, but her dark eyes moving shiftily. None of the other girls spoke, their faces a mixture of confusion and concern, unsure of what they could believe.

“Girls?”

With a deep sigh of relief, Anne looked over her shoulder as Ms. Stacy approached.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed, taking the teacher’s hand and bringing her into the thick of the group. “Ms. Stacy, please explain to us how a woman becomes pregnant.”

“Oh!” Ms. Stacy cried, a blush creeping up her neck as she had certainly never expected to be dragged into such a conversation. “This isn’t exactly the time or place for such a discussion, and certainly your parents should be the ones to educate you on such matters.”

“My mother says touching boys will make me pregnant,” Ruby announced.

“And we are touching the boys for this dance,” Tillie added.

“I see,” Ms. Stacy sighed. “Girls, let me assure you that no one will become pregnant from dancing.”

“But there’s so much _touching_!” Ruby insisted.

“That’s not how it works,” Ms. Stacy replied, and Anne tilted her head in such a way as if to brag ‘I-told-you-so’. “Touching is not…well, it’s not topical to the subject. There are many steps to conceiving. First courtship, then marriage, then you and your husband – with your consent – may decide to go down that cherished path to parenthood. Together. Is that clear?”

It wasn’t, but none of the girls could seem to get their minds to wrap around the information they’d just been given long enough to put up a protest before Ms. Stacy smiled with satisfaction and said it was time to return to the dance lesson.

“I’m afraid to dance!” Ruby declared, handkerchief still twisted tightly in her hands.

“You may sit this one out if you wish,” Ms. Stacy answered swiftly, eager to get her pupils back in the classroom and their minds on the matter at hand. After all, the sooner Rachel was happy with the students' progress, the sooner she and her son would leave.

“Let’s try new sets,” Mrs. Lynde announced, already starting to place students into different lines of three, believing a fresh start was what everyone needed to finally get the knack of the dance.

“Mrs. Lynde,” Moody interrupted, holding his banjo, “since I’ll be joining the band at the picnic, would you like me to play?”

“Yes!” Ruby answered sharply, having crept out of the cloakroom to find a place where she could watch her friends, blue eyes trained on Moody the moment he took his banjo out of the case. She was so taken with the boy (who had turned to give her a dazzling smile) and his instrument that she never noticed the shrewd look Mrs. Lynde shot her before agreeing that Moody’s playing might help the others keep the rhythm.

“Right then. Ready?” Mrs. Lynde asked.

Anne took a moment to mentally rush through the order of the steps before Moody’s music started. She was sandwiched between Caleb and Charlie, one boy so tall he towered over her by at least twelve inches, and the other the exact same height as Anne herself. She imagined they looked an odd trio, especially when compared to the set across from them which was made up of Jane and Diana, two of the prettiest girls in class, and between them none other than Gilbert, the handsomest boy in Avonlea. He was standing directly across from Anne, the teasing smile from earlier still adorning his features, and Anne returned the grin as the music began and Gilbert started tapping out the beat with his right foot.

Taking hands to create a circle, they started making their eight steps first to the left and then to the right, Gilbert using the brief second before they switched directions to bow his head briefly at Anne, as if to compliment her footwork thus far. She just laughed, heart starting to hammer and a strange tickle quietly building low in her belly.

Then it was time to break apart and address the partners in their set, Anne taking Caleb’s hands first for a turn (the man so timid he barely held a grip on her fingers) and then Charlie (who stepped on Anne’s foot). At least when doing their reels they didn’t have to touch, just give their partner their left shoulder as they twirled in figure-eights. This step was a bit more complicated, but as Anne gave Charlie her shoulder she looked up and spotted Gilbert staring at her, his hazel eyes locked onto her figure as he weaved between Diana and Jane, and suddenly it was as if her feet knew where to go and which beat to tap on, so long as she kept her eyes always on Gilbert.

The strange tickle started to grow.

Reforming their lines, Anne was practically hypnotized by Gilbert’s penetrating gaze, the boy across from her smirking as they danced, her instinct to follow him so natural that, when he swooped his hand up to take hers, Anne didn’t question it, laying her palm against his and feeling her world turn when he spun her under his arm and pulled her into his set.

The victorious smile Gilbert flashed her was joyful, as if every unhappiness in his life had been erased by that single action. Giving their clasped hands a brief glance, Gilbert returned his stare to Anne, raising a single dark brow in a sassy challenge. The redhead bit her lip, but was unable to keep herself from smiling, the expression telling the rascally boy at her side that his audacious action had pleased her. Now between Charlie and Gilbert, Anne took a deep breath, hoping to at least impede thecoiling tickle that was now filling all of her chest, making her feel like she might very well fly off the floor.

When they completed their first round, all was well, but as they paused to start skipping in the opposite direction, Gilbert moved his hand across his middle, forcing Anne closer. So close, in fact, her chin bumped against his shoulder and she couldn’t keep from laughing, especially when Gilbert feigned an innocent expression but then winked at her just as the round ended.

And then it was time to take the turn, Anne and Gilbert’s hands finding each others’ without either having to look, Gilbert drawing Anne close just as she simply moved nearer. Their chests almost brushed together as they turned and their eyes remained trained tightly to one another. When she had to let go of Gilbert to do a turn with Charlie, Anne could feel Gilbert’s gaze on her, knew he was watching her with an intensity that was as fascinating as it was dangerous…like fire.

As they started the reels, Anne couldn’t hear Moody’s music, or Mrs. Lynde’s voice calling out the steps, or even see Charlie as she weaved about the floor. All she saw was Gilbert and knew that all he saw was her, his face smoothed into a concentrated expression reserved only for a subject he was determined to memorize.

Anne was that subject, the single object that had captured Gilbert’s attention so much that Anne didn’t know if there was another moment in her life when she felt so powerful and vulnerable at the same time. If he asked her about posting on the Take Notice Board right then, Anne would have told him she didn’t want his words on a board for all to read, she just needed to hear him tell her how he felt. Was what Cole had said last year true? Did Gilbert have a crush on her? Was it possible that ‘they’ could be a ‘we’? Was that something he wanted? Was that something she wanted?

And then they were standing side by side, Gilbert holding his hand out to Anne and she, without looking away from his handsome face, placed her fingers in his. When he squeezed her hand, Anne closed her eyes, relishing the touch, and that horribly wonderful tickle now consumed her whole body. It was like being filled with a storm that needed to be released, but how?

As they took their last steps of the dance, Anne couldn’t help but look down at her and Gilbert’s joined hands, entranced by how they fit so snuggly together. When she squeezed her fingers against his, it felt as if some of that tickling storm had ebbed in the place where they touched, and suddenly Anne wondered how it would feel if she touched more of Gilbert, if she hugged his waist, or caressed his jaw, or kissed him deeply. She wondered if the storm inside her would cease or if it would grow.

She wondered if Gilbert would want her the same way she finally understood she wanted him.

It was that thought, so startling in its sudden appearance and simple honesty, that had Anne’s heart stuttering and her breath nearly choking her.

She wanted Gilbert Blythe. Wanted him as a friend, always, but there was another want, something that lived deep within her, primal in its ferocity and just as terrifying in its inexplicable truth. As if the pages of her soul were opening before her eyes, Anne read the words that her heart had been tirelessly trying to force her to study for much longer than she realized. It all became clear in that wonderful suspended moment that Anne understood herself better than she had ever had before.

She cared for Gilbert.

More than that, she adored him, admired him, felt a kinship with him that she knew she never had, and never would feel, with another soul. She yearned for Gilbert, for his favour, and praise, and smiles, and now for his touch, and – it was almost too much to even think it! – his kiss.

She wanted to kiss Gilbert and she wanted him to kiss her back, and the image of such an embrace was so alarming, that she knew she had to step away from the boy that had been the source of so much of her confusion since her first days in Avonlea. When it was time to switch sets, Anne released herself from Gilbert’s hold, returning to her original line and never seeing how Gilbert kept his empty hand reaching out for her, his fingers stretching as if they could grasp her essence, before dropping his arm and returning it to his side.

The last few steps of the dance were performed as Anne and Gilbert once again stared at each other from across a narrow gap.

Slowly, the music returned to the world, as did Mrs. Lynde’s stern and steady voice reciting the last few beats, and the tittering of their peers, and the overeager applause of Ruby as she clapped over Moody’s playing, the boy blushing and blustering under the girl’s attention.

Gilbert bowed and Anne curtsied. And then they looked at one another as if for the first time.

Anne stared at Gilbert and saw both the boy and the man, her rival and friend, someone she shared a past with and who she very much hoped to share a future with. She saw herself as a teacher and he a doctor, returning to a quaint white house on the outskirts of some fine city after long hours at work. She saw meals prepared together, and teasing over dessert, and a shared study where they reviewed each other’s notes, making a game of correcting their spelling, an old, beloved joke between them.

She saw a bedroom that always had flowers in the window, and lace curtains so the sun could shine in, and a vanity with her brush and his shaving kit, and a bed made of oak with fluffy feather stuffed pillows and quilts handed down from families, and on it two lovers entwined in an embrace so sensual that the storm inside of Anne suddenly turned into a hot pulse concentrated around her hips and thighs. The redhead almost gasped at the heat that enfolded inside her, squeezing her legs together as if that might bring her some relief, but it only made the ache worse.

She watched as Gilbert’s expression, so serene and lovely, changed slowly into something unsure, contemplative, and then he almost flinched and Anne worried he’d somehow seen the wicked visions of her imagination. Gasping, the sixteen-year old made a hasty retreat, not bothering to speak with anyone as she hurried for the cloakroom and started dressing for home.

The whole time, her heart pounded and she gulped in shallow breaths as if she were swimming. Her mind was racing with too many thoughts and feelings and everything had to do with Gilbert and the dance and it was all so infuriating she could just scream! Snatching her hat, Anne turned and nearly collided with Gilbert who was also dressed in his coat and hat and seemed ready to flee the schoolhouse as soon as possible. Barely sparing a glance at him, Anne dashed for the door, jumping down the stairs and nearly running for the lane that would take her home, forgetting that Gilbert walked the same way to get to his farm.

All she wanted to do was lock herself in her bedroom and bury her face in her pillows as she tried to sort out what had happened to her during the dance. Why had her body reacted so strangely? What did Gilbert have to do with it (because he most certainly was to blame for her rapidly beating heart, and shortness of breath, and elated feeling of flying)? And what did all of these feelings mean?

“Afternoon, Anne.”

Startled, Anne spun around, expecting Gilbert and stunned to find Charlie Sloane rushing to catch up to her.

“Hi,” she said, unsure of why the boy was following her when his farm was in the opposite direction of Green Gables.

“I was wondering…may I walk with you a ways? If that’s alright,” Charlie asked when he caught up to her.

“…of course,” Anne answered, even though she’d rather be left alone, but what else could she say without seeming rude? With a pleased smile, Charlie came to stand at Anne’s side and the pair started down the lane, the crunching of grass under their boots the only chatter between them for several steps until Charlie finally spoke.

“Did you enjoy dance practice?” he wondered. His question had Anne’s heart pounding desperately, and compulsively she looked back to see if Gilbert was behind them, finding it odd when he proved to not be there at all, and she wondered if he had taken the long way back to his orchard rather than be forced to alight down the same path as her.

“I did not,” she answered vehemently, her heated response fueled by her irrational insult over Gilbert having selected to take a different way home. “In fact, I found the whole affair to be torturous.”

“Oh. But you seem to be a natural at it.”

“Me? A natural? Charlie don’t be ridiculous. This entire afternoon was just a preposterous waste of time. Our entrance exams are on the horizon and yet we spent precious hours spinning about our classroom like enflamed bumblebees. I can think of an infinite number of things I’d rather do than participate in that…that frippery!” Anne was almost panting by the time she was done her rant, face flushed and lips dry. “You agree, don’t you?”

“I…I just worry about you, is all,” Charlie said, hands in his pockets as he cast a warry eye at his companion.

“Worry for me?” Anne echoed, stopping in her tracks to address the boy. “Why would you worry for me?”

“You think so much,” Charlie said, facing Anne with an earnest expression that the redhead wanted to scratch off his face, “and you’re very emotional. That’s not good for a girl.”

“What kind of drivel are you talking about?!” Anne raged, about to thwack the infuriating boy with her lunch basket.

“I’d just hate to see you ruin your chances for a family,” he explained hurriedly. “If you can avoid damaging your ability to bear children, why not start as soon as possible?”

Rather than hit him with her basket, Anne dropped it to the forest floor, flabbergasted.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she confessed. A look of pity crossed Charlie’s face and he took a brave step forward, placing a hand on Anne’s shoulder in a consoling gesture that she was far too stunned to shrug off.

“Didn’t Ms. Cuthbert tell you? An overly active mind causes women to be barren.”

“That’s not true…” Anne replied, stepping away from Charlie and his unwanted touch, her mind bounding from the vexed emotions stirred up by the dance with Gilbert to the traumatic possibility that her own spirit could be working against her to take away something she had thought would be her own choice to make when the time came. “I have to go.”

And without bothering to pick up her dropped basket, Anne darted off towards the Haunted Woods and Green Gables beyond. She needed to speak with Marilla.

* * *

The melody wouldn’t leave him.

Though he tried desperately to focus on other subjects, his medical notes, the farm, even supper, the ghost of Moody’s banjo playing that blasted tune continued to echo in Gilbert’s memory.

“Dashing…white…sergeant…” he grumbled as he started cutting carrots for the stew, his chopping a tad more aggressive than usual, but then, Gilbert was suffering from a great deal of pent up energy.

“I know that tune,” Mary commented, sighing as she relaxed her feet in the tin tub of hot water with parsley that Gilbert had prepared to help with her swollen ankles. “Is that what Rachel has you kids learning for the Queen’s birthday picnic?”

“Yes,” Gilbert answered shortly, “and dancing isn’t my preferred way to spend an afternoon.”

“I see,” Mary said knowingly, smiling as she watched Gilbert viciously chop the vegetables for their dinner. “Did Anne dance with someone else?”

“What?! No!” Gilbert declared, but as he looked over at Mary and caught the teasing smile she flashed in his direction, the eighteen-year old realized what she was about and allowed himself to relax a bit. “She danced with me,” he admitted, shy as he said it, his memory instantly sending him back a few hours to that afternoon and those glorious minutes when nothing in the world existed save for he and Anne. It was just like the dance shared between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett in _Pride and Prejudice_.

Gilbert adored Anne. Admired her and cared for her, too. After all, his tender regard for Anne had been why he’d been so disappointed when the redhead revealed her interest in the Take Notice Board had nothing to do with them, but rather with him and Ruby. Gilbert had always known that any romantic feelings he had for Anne were not likely to be reciprocated, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping which, he supposed, explained why her rejection still panged within his chest from time to time.

However, despite knowing how Anne felt, Gilbert resolved that he wouldn’t let it affect their friendship. It was what he’d wanted with Anne from the start, had been beaten over the head with a slate to get, and he would be damned if he was going to lose it simply because he felt a certain way and she did not. Feelings could be compartmentalized and hidden and buried down so deep within one’s soul that they could be almost forgotten.

It was what Gilbert hoped would happen with the new feelings that had suddenly and viciously overwhelmed him that afternoon. 

When he and Anne had started dancing, it had just been a bit of teasing fun, making silly faces at her and seeing who the best dancer of the pair could be. But then they’d fallen in sync, and Anne had looked at him with her grey eyes so alight with passion that he was caught in the brightness that was simply Anne. And so, he’d pulled her next to him, needing to be closer, his soul calling out for hers with each turn and reel until they were holding hands again, palms pressed as perfectly together as two pieces of a puzzle.

The dance had invigorated him, leaving Gilbert flushed and eager, his body awash in something he’d only just come to recognize as desire, and the object of his ardent attention was his bewitching redheaded best friend. Seeing her stand across from him, skin pink from the dance, chest heaving for breath, and lips smiling at him as if he raised the sun, Gilbert’s body had had a savage and visceral reaction, his blood pooling so hot and uncomfortable around his groin that he simply had to flee for fear of embarrassing himself or worse, offending Anne. He’d taken the long, meandering path back to his orchard, the walk managing to cool his body, but certainly not his heart, or his mind.

“Mary?” he asked, the woman giving him her earnest attention. He hesitated a moment, debating on if he really wanted to unburden the chaotic thoughts battling in his mind. But Mary was a kindred spirit, an older sister in many ways, and Gilbert felt he could trust her with the delicate matters of his confused heart. At least, he felt he could trust her better than Bash. “If I feel…something…for…for a girl…does that mean she’s the one that I should be with?”

“And what do you feel for this girl, exactly?” Mary wondered, kind in her inquiry, truly wanting to help the young man.

“Fond,” he replied, fists clenching at his sides as he grappled with trying to put into words the many, many emotions Anne evoked in him. “But more than fond. I like her, and I like being around her, and I like how I feel when I’m around her. It’s as if…like I’m a bee and she’s a flower and I just want to…I want to be near her…all the time. She’s amazing, and smart, and beautiful, and I want to…” Gilbert didn’t let himself finish his thought, bashful about giving his yearning for Anne a voice, and trusting that Mary (a _married_ woman) would understand what he meant.

“Hmm, sounds serious,” she said after a moment.

“Does it?”

“Yes’em. Sounds to me like you might be well on your way to falling in love with this girl – who we’re going to pretend I don’t know is Anne,” Mary teased, chuckling as she watched Gilbert blush at her words, but not deny them. “Just remember, Gilbert: how you felt dancing with her, that’s only part of what it means to be with someone. Attraction is important, but love is what truly matters, above all else. There’s a reason vows say ‘for-better-or-for-worse’, because while other feelings – passions – may fade over time, true love never will lose its luster no matter what. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Gilbert said, though his brow was crinkled tight, a sign he was still unsure. Mary wanted to soothe her little brother, but a sudden jab just under her ribs made her gasp and Gilbert was at her side in an instant with a look of concern shadowing his features.

“Just a kick,” Mary said, taking Gilbert’s hand and placing it on her swollen belly, the baby responding to the pressure with another fierce jolt.

“They’re strong,” Gilbert remarked, in awe of the growing life pulsing beneath his palm.

“They are what it’s all about,” Mary commented, taking Gilbert’s chin in hand and giving it a light pinch, hoping the boy would come to understand his feelings for their titian neighbour soon.

Young love was an amazing thing to watch, but a soul only had so much patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is this chapter SO. LONG?!
> 
> Well, because it does set up a lot of important things, but most importantly of all, it finally answers what us viewers knew all along after watching S3E5: that Anne and Gilbert got super horny after that dance practice and had no idea how to handle it. 
> 
> Obviously, I’m having our OTP start to recognize their feelings a wee bit sooner than they did in the canon (book and show), and for a good reason. Does that mean they’ll get together early and the rest of this story will be about them navigating their relationship?
> 
> ….maybe, sort of? 
> 
> But that’s all I’m saying on the matter.
> 
> I’m discovering I’m really enjoying writing the girls’ interactions, and I always did find the ‘touching-gets-you-pregnant’ scene to be the absolute pinnacle in comedy in AWAE, so it was a lot of fun to write that moment. Also, Charlie’s deplorable attempts at wooing Anne will never fail to make me want to shake that boy. She’s just not that into you, Sloane, take a hint. 
> 
> And of course, I adored writing Gilbert and Mary’s interactions in this chapter. Another thing I felt could have been explored a bit better in S3 was Gilbert and Mary’s relationship, which is very much older/younger sibling. Sadly, we didn’t get to see just how much they meant to each other until Mary was dying, but what we did see convinced me that the pair had a very strong rapport, and so you bet I was going to make sure I took my opportunity to let that bond have its moment. Besides, it was fun imagining how Mary would try and answer Gilbert’s attraction/love question, rather than his teasing, but sweet, brother Bash. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Anne has a question Gilbert isn’t so sure he wants to answer
> 
> I am forever indebted to all of you who have read, kudosed, bookmarked and subscribed and commented on this story. 
> 
> Your love keeps me fueled!


	5. Anne has a Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Anne Shirley-Cuthbert has a question she is sure to get her answer, one embarrassing way or another

_‘Dear Anne,_

_‘It is such an interesting world we live in. Go out! Explore! Learn! Part of the thrill of being alive is seeking that which we don’t know, and isn’t it just splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about…’_

* * *

“What if it’s like…animal husbandry?” Tillie wondered, mouth twisting in horror.

“That’s disgusting!” Josie cried, switching easily to a smile as she handed Mr. and Mrs. St. Georges their copy of the _Avonlea Gazette_ before returning her expression to an aghast grimace as she addressed her girlfriends. “We’re not filthy animals.”

“But animals don’t have to think,” Diana observed thoughtfully. “And they do bear offspring so easily. So what if that means –”

“Charlie was right,” Anne finished, devastated at the implication, as were all the girls.

That morning just before church, Anne had shared Charlie Sloane’s dire appraisement of female reproduction with her friends. They were all naturally stunned by what Anne reported and immediately concluded that Charlie must have it wrong. But as none of them felt they could go to their mothers with questions they knew they weren’t supposed to ponder until their wedding night, they only had their own incomplete knowledge to draw upon in their quest for the truth.

“Can’t we try asking Ms. Stacy again?” Tillie wondered desperately after greeting Widow Annette with a ‘good morning’ and copy of the newspaper.

“And have her repeat that riddle from dance practice? No thanks,” Josie scoffed. “What did she even mean ‘it’s not topical’?”

“What did she mean by the steps to conceiving?” Tillie wondered fervently. “And consent? What steps are involved in that?!”

“We may have to accept the sorry fact that it’s possible intelligent and emotional females simply cannot bear children,” Jane declared with an unnerving calm. “The good news, however, is that if this is true, then we can conclude with certainty that Ruby is not pregnant.”

“But I don’t want to be barren!” the blond exclaimed, her distress blinding her to the malice of Jane’s poor taste joke. The other girls, however, were not impressed, Josie digging her elbow hard into Jane’s side and Diana pinning the brunette with a sour look.

“Let’s not make assumptions,” Diana reasoned sharply. “We simply must find someone who can answer our questions.”

“But where?” Ruby pouted. “Who?!”

A silence fell over the friends as they tried to come up with an answer. Huffing, Anne looked over to the church, watching the Avonlea townspeople stroll out of the rectory, hoping she might spot someone she felt she could ask, but no such person crossed her path.

It was such a disappointment that Marilla had been unable to provide any insight on the situation, the poor spinster at just as much a loss on the subject as her infuriated daughter had been the afternoon she’d stormed into Green Gables and announced that Charlie Sloane had told her the most egregious thing…

* * *

_“I’m doomed!” Anne cried out, slamming her fist into the dough, relishing how the pasty batter took her abuse. She continued to knead the rye, Marilla watching with concern._

_“Is there medical evidence?” the older woman asked from her place at the stove where she was minding a pot of broth for Mathew, the poor soul still suffering from a chest cold._

_“I have no idea,” Anne admitted, frustrated as she declared her lack of knowledge. “This is a travesty, Marilla! Although I’ve never claimed to know what my future holds, I still expected to have all the options available so that I might make the best choice for me when the time came. And now I’m told that it’s my very nature that could prove my ultimate ruin.”_

_“Well, I say there’s no use getting yourself in a tizzy until we’ve gotten facts from a more reliable source than Charlie Sloane,” Marilla suggested._

_“Oh, Marilla,” Anne warbled, abandoning her over-kneaded dough so she could embrace her mother, Marilla quick to take the girl into her arms._

_For a while, Anne cried hot angry tears, unleashing her frustrations over the grave sentence Charlie had given her, and all over something she couldn’t control. After all, how did one change from a passionate and intelligent person to a docile and leveled one when it simply wasn’t in their nature? A fox could never be a rabbit and they still had young all the time, so why couldn’t Anne?_

_What was most vexing, however, was how the redhead felt she’d disappointed the Cuthberts. Her possible sterility would be yet another in a long list of shortcomings, and certainly something that would bring shame to the people she loved most in the world. It broke Anne’s heart to think that they might be deprived of grandchildren, something Anne hadn’t even realized she’d wanted to give them until the moment she believed it might not be possible._

_And what a darling den of little ones she could imagine. At least six or seven of them, boys and girls, each with cherubic faces, and cheery laughs, and wide, curious grey eyes, and best of all, not a one of them cursed with their mother’s horrid red hair. Instead, each child Anne imagined had heads topped with beautiful, thick dark hair the colour of roasted chestnut shells, the tresses a wild forest of curls just like their father’s…_

* * *

And as she struggled to keep from smiling while she recalled that splendid vision of happy children, Anne looked up just in time to see the very boy whose curls had played such an important role in her fantasy come waltzing out of the church, politely chatting with Mr. Barry.

The suit Gilbert wore was one Anne saw on him every Sunday, but she had to admit that, in the last few months, he seemed more dashing in the outfit. Perhaps it was because his shoulders had broadened so much that now the jacket fit his frame fashionably, the material stretching over his arms and across his back in an attractive drape. The buttons on his waistcoat were shining, each like a black winking eye teasing her for staring. His trousers were weathered, but now that Mary lived with him they were always hemmed. His boots were certainly his best, Anne knowing Gilbert only wore them for church and to his Saturday internship at Dr. Ward’s clinic, the dark leather polished so thoroughly Anne could see her reflection in the toes.

She gave a final appraising sweep of her friend from foot to head, grey eyes resting on his handsome face as he finished his talk with Mr. Barry. His jaw was especially splendid that morning, his mouth set in a smile as he spoke, brows and eyes resting in such a way that, while she couldn’t make out what was being said between the two men, she knew Gilbert was enjoying the conversation.

Though she could have stared at Gilbert a while longer, it occurred to Anne that the chattering around her had gone quiet. Turning to her friends, she almost balked when she realized all of them were giving her a hard and determined stare-down.

“What?” she asked, leery of their intentions. Catching Diana’s eye, Anne felt herself pale when her bosom friend subtly nudged her head in Gilbert’s direction. “What?” Anne asked again, hoping her intuition was wrong even as a feeling of dread began to clog her throat.

“He’s studying to be a doctor,” Josie muttered close to Anne’s ear.

“So?!” Anne cried back.

“So, he’s the best to ask,” Tillie decided, moving to push Anne’s shoulder. “Go on.”

“And ask him what exactly?!” Anne demanded, becoming a bit hysterical as all her friends ganged up behind her and started pushing.

“About reproduction.”

“Are we barren?”

“The steps to conception.”

“No!” Anne whisper-yelled, digging her heels into the dirt and throwing a betrayed look over her shoulder at the girls who were supposed to be her friends. “No, no, no, no, no!”

“Good morning,” Gilbert greeted, startling Anne and the girls out of their argument. Freezing in terror, Anne looked up at Gilbert who was still standing at the top of the church steps. He was smiling kindly, if somewhat uneasily as he observed all of the girls from his class seemingly waiting for him.

“Morning,” Anne greeted, her smile strained, and no further words left her tightly sealed lips

“Um…how are the Cuthberts?” Gilbert ventured.

“Sorry?” the redhead wondered, blinking rapidly in confusion at Gilbert’s query.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert. I didn’t see them in church with you,” Gilbert elaborated, pointing over his shoulder at the building, his own hazel eyes betraying his confusion over the wooden conversation.

“Oh!” Anne gasped. “They’re fine. Mathew’s chest cold has made a nasty return. Marilla was up with him most of the night so they’ve both stayed home today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gilbert said sincerely. “I hope he gets well soon. If you’d like, I can ask Dr. Ward for his advice on some simple treatments if you think that would help.”

“Oh, yes. That’s very kind. Thank you.”

“ _AHEM_!”

It was Tillie who unsubtly cleared her throat, her fake cough so booming it made both Anne and Gilbert cringe.

“Anne has a question,” Josie reported strongly, giving the redhead’s shoulder an indelicate push. Irritated and beyond embarrassed, Anne gave Gilbert a very clipped smile, wondering if he could see the agony in her grey eyes.

“Hello,” she said shortly.

“Hello,” Gilbert echoed, brow scrunched up and mouth curling in a bewildered frown.

“Hello.”

“You said that already,” Gilbert reported bemusedly, not knowing what Anne and the girls were about but hoping his friend would confide in him with whatever it was she wanted to know.

“Right! Yes. So…Hello.”

“For goodness’ sake, Anne!” Jane hissed.

“Gilbert!” Anne all but yelled, bringing the entire group to a breath-holding standstill. “Is it…true that women of intelligence and passio— _emotion_! – yes, emotion…is it true that they are…doomed…to be infertile?” The last few words Anne forced out with the speed of a train, desperate to get each syllable beyond her lips so that the mortifying moment could end. “Is that how reproduction works?”

Anne couldn’t even look at Gilbert as she mumbled the end of her question, imagining his shocked expression, or worse, a grimace of disgust that she would so boldly ask him to explain such a thing. Perhaps he would believe she was as wicked as others had condemned her to be, and the idea that she might lose whatever esteem Gilbert may have for her had Anne nearly begging him to forget she ever started this uncomfortable dialogue.

“Well…um…that subject is a bit…complicated…But…”

The fact he was speaking at all had Anne lifting her head to look at her friend. He was blushing, and it was adorable, but he looked back at her not in pity or repulsion, but with a bashful earnestness that let Anne know that Gilbert didn’t mind her asking the question, only that she had picked a rather sensitive topic to address on the church steps.

“There’s nothing I’ve seen in my medical experience that would lead me to believe that a woman’s reproductive capability is at all linked to her intelligence or her…passions.” Anne was certain Gilbert would have winked at her if she wasn’t flanked by all the girls from their class or if he didn’t look like he wanted nothing more than to flee. “Is that all?”

Sighing in relief, Anne smiled and was going to thank Gilbert when Tillie nudged her.

“The steps,” she whispered. Going as stiff as if someone had dumped snow down her dress, Anne stared at Gilbert and, with all the power she could muster, shook her head.

“Well,” the eighteen-year old said, with no small measure of relief. “Good day, then.” And with that awkwardly polite farewell, Gilbert left the girls at the foot of the church steps and hurried across the road to the rectory’s public stables where his horse was waiting. Releasing a breath she’d been holding since Tillie mentioned the dreaded steps, Anne sagged against Diana, her friend strong at her side while the redhead composed herself.

“Well that wasn’t helpful,” Jane grumbled.

“He said ‘seen’!” Ruby reported fretfully. “What has he seen?!”

“Enough!” Anne commanded, her outcry granting her the attention of all her friends. “Ladies, we need to purge ourselves of these nonsensical lies,” she decided. “We have to find someone, a confidant, a kindred spirit, a woman of forward thinking, someone who understands the importance of a girl’s education in these matters.”

“And who exactly would that be, Anne?” Josie wondered snidely. Though she had no answer, Anne was certain she could think of someone, and was about to tell Josie so when Gilbert crossed their path on his horse, the honey coloured steed taking him on a gentle trot down the dirt road.

“Have a nice afternoon,” he expressed, offering a small wave.

“You as well,” Diana replied, speaking for the group. “And give my best to Bash and Mary!”

“Will do.”

And with that final farewell, Gilbert was off, but Anne took no time to admire the dashing figure he cut galloping away on his horse. The redhead had been struck with a notion that had her smiling like a fool and pulling Diana close so she could plant a kiss on her friend’s forehead.

“Most splendid and wise of all Dianas!” Anne declared, leaving her friends perplexed. “Oh! It’s you who should be studying to be a doctor, for you have just enlightened me to the cure for our odious malady.”

“I have?” Diana asked, but before she could demand clarity, Anne deposited her remaining newspapers into Josie’s arms and dashed away so quickly she had to hold her hat down on her head, ignoring her girlfriends as they called after her.

Anne ran as quickly as she could for Green Gables, barely stopping to greet Jerry (Sunday was usually his day off, but in the wake of Mathew’s illness he had offered to come and work a half-day so that the farm’s sowing season remained on schedule) before bounding into the kitchen, grabbing an empty soup pail, and leaving just as swiftly as she came.

Still running, Anne sprinted across wheat fields that had just turned viridian and under trees with branches beginning to bud, some already awash in a young coat of spring foliage. The puddles her boots clapped in were no longer frosted with thin sheets of ice, and for part of the way a family of bunnies raced her along a path that only existed in Anne’s imagination, for the girl needed no road to lead her to her destination.

The Blythe-Lacroix farmhouse came into view, first as a small stone structure upon a knoll of bright green grass, and then gradually shaping into the strong, sturdy homestead of a happy family as the redhead got closer. When she arrived at the back porch, Anne took a moment to look around and discern where exactly Gilbert was. She certainly didn’t want him to know she was there and that could prove difficult if he was in the house.

She could make out voices, neither too close, but certainly not lost deep in the orchard. Peering around the east wall, Anne spotted Bash and Gilbert in the field, the pair filthy in their work clothes as they hoisted hoes and shovels, digging up the earth and rotating the topsoil. Bash was saying something about planting a new line of apple trees, but Anne wasn’t paying attention because her focus was lost completely on the fine shape of Gilbert’s backside.

Gilbert’s rear end was…firm.

While over time Anne had come to notice and appreciate the charms of Gilbert’s fine jaw, his impish smile, warm hazel eyes, and even the enthralling breadth of his powerful chest, she’d never before caught herself gawking with such lasciviousness at his body. As he bent over to dig out a particularly stubborn rock from the soil, Anne couldn’t help but notice that the trousers he was wearing were form-fitting across his thighs and rump, and the redhead had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering as she imagined strolling over to him and laying her palm on his flank and slowly, admiringly, running her hand up to his bottom and squeezing. Again, that horrid, wonderful tickle started spreading from the very centre of Anne’s body, making her thighs tremble and hips feel restless.

“Anne?”

Gasping, Anne felt her whole body seize as she turned to find Mary standing in the door.

“Good afternoon,” she managed to eek out, trying to remember that it was Mary she’d come to see in the first place. “Mind if I come in?”

Mary’s answering smile was all the invitation Anne needed.

“What brings you here?”

“Mathew,” Anne started, holding out the soup pail. “He’s still battling that wretched cold. I was wondering if I could persuade you to show me how to make your chicken soup; I thought that might help him.”

“Anything for that sweet soul,” Mary said gladly. “You know where the pantry is. We’ll need carrots, onions, garlic, and just bring my whole basket of spices.”

Anne did as Mary bade, helping to set up the kitchen so they could work on the soup together. As she did, the sixteen-year old tried to find the courage to ask Mary the question that had truly brought her to the house, but every time she opened her mouth the query would shrivel up on the tip of her tongue and she’d end up staring at her feet, working to build up her nerve again only to fail. Frustrated, Anne was rough as she washed the vegetables, trying to motivate herself to ask the damned question when she looked out the window and caught another glimpse of Gilbert.

He’d removed his waistcoat, only in a threadbare shirt that was almost indecent for how ill-fitting it was. The shoulders were too tight and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, the rare ray of sunshine poking through the overcast sky making the dark hair on his muscular forearms glimmer. The top button at his collar was missing, his throat exposed, and Anne watched as Gilbert took a deep drink from a jar of water, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and suddenly all she wanted to do was curl her head in the space where his neck and shoulder joined and just surround herself in Gilbert, imagining he’d smell of sunshine and earth.

“Was it just soup you came here after?”

The sixteen-year old managed to keep her composure as she was once again caught staring. Turning to Mary, Anne could see the woman was teasing her and Anne had the grace to appear chagrined at having been caught leering at her friend. But the fact she was feeling flush from something as silly as Gilbert’s throat made Anne determined to seek the counsel she was certain Mary could provide. After all, Mary was a beautiful person with a beautiful heart, and most crucially, she was pregnant. Truly, there could be no one in Avonlea that was better suited to answer all of Anne’s desperate questions on marital relations than a woman awash in the radiance of marital bliss.

“I want to know about reproduction,” Anne blurted out, shuddering at how awkward the demand sounded. Her words had certainly surprised Mary, for the woman’s jaw opened in shock and her brow crinkled in concern. “Let me explain,” Anne said, chopping the onions and carrots, giving her hands something to do as she caught Mary up on why she would ask such question. Mary listened, never interrupting even when Anne became impassioned in her tale-telling, and the woman was kind enough not to laugh when Anne bashfully admitted to being corralled into asking Gilbert for insight on the subject, and how that encounter hadn’t succeeded in answering all of her questions. “So you see, I need to know the truth. It’s my body and I deserve to know how it works, that way I won’t be led astray with false information. I want to be able to make the best choices for myself and I can only do that if I know what I’m consenting to,” Anne finished. “Will you tell me?”

“Anne-girl,” Mary began, taking the vegetables the sixteen-year old had minced and placing them in a pan to simmer with some garlic and seasoning, “I’m not sure I’m the one you should be asking. These matters should be discussed with family.”

“Marilla didn’t know,” Anne reported dejectedly, “and the rest of the girls said their mothers would be too scandalized to tell them. But I thought you have Elijah, and now sweet Cordelia…” Anne trailed off as she raised a hand to Mary’s belly, her palm tingling with the warmth of life she felt surge beneath it. That was her godchild growing in Mary’s womb, a kindred spirit that Anne would guide and teach and love, but how could she hope to be a mentor when she couldn’t even fathom how that precious life had begun? “And you are my family, Mary. Who else could I ask?”

The silence between the two women was long, and just when Anne was about to spout an apology for putting Mary into an uncomfortable position, the older woman put the sautéed vegetables into the bubbling broth, added some chicken and spices and turned to the redhead with a sympathetic expression.

“Have a seat,” Mary said, and Anne was so relieved she kissed Mary on the cheek and perched herself on the long bench at the kitchen table. “Alright, I suppose we’ll begin by you telling me what you already know about reproduction. I’d like to know what facts you do have and what myths I have to correct.”

“Of course,” Anne nodded, grasping Mary’s logic. “Well, I know reproduction involves touching and kissing, although I’m led to believe it’s a different sort of touching and kissing than one may experience when courting, and I know that touching and kissing alone cannot make a woman pregnant. Is that right?”

“So far,” Mary said, but offered no further direction.

“A woman I used to work for called it intimate relations,” Anne started, lowering her gaze and picking at her nails, suddenly uncomfortable.

She hated having to recall her life before Avonlea, sometimes imagining that she was like Thumbelina, a girl who simply sprouted from the earth of Green Gables already formed and ready to be Cuthberts daughter. It was so much better to imagine than remember, but the only inkling of education she’d ever been given about marital relations had been from the sad and callous Mrs. Hammond, so there was nothing for the redhead to do but remember.

“She told me that all men have a mouse in their front pocket and that they enjoy it when a woman pets it…she used to say she hoped I’d grow faster so that her husband would get me to play with his mouse and give her a rest. I remember wishing I’d stay little forever because every time Mrs. Hammond played with Mr. Hammond’s mouse she’d have twins and I didn’t want that. I suppose that’s when I knew that reproduction had something to do with intimate relations; that babies needed a husband and wife to be created.”

“A man and woman,” Mary corrected gently, and not without some moderate caution. “In a perfect world, only husbands and wives would conceive, but all that is truly required to make a baby is a man and a woman.”

“Not a marriage?” Anne asked, shocked when Mary nodded in confirmation. “Oh my, I understand now…” she sighed, mind drifting further back, to before the Hammonds, to dark days at the orphanage when women would come with babies and no husbands. Some came back over and over, and the matron would call them tramps and sluts, taking the babies but turning the mothers out each time.

There was something else Anne could almost remember. It was the young, ruddy face of a girl with blond hair, too hazy for Anne to recall details, like looking at a reflection in rippling water. She wasn’t much older than Anne was now, and her arms were filled with a wriggling little baby. Anne thought there might be a lullaby and a name mixed in the bleary recollection, but what seemed to stand out in the wisp of a memory was the haunting wail of that girl as her song disintegrated into a keening howl and her arms fell to her sides, empty.

“Anne?”

“Oh Mary!” Anne exclaimed, shocked back to the present. She was overwhelmed, both with the surfacing of a memory buried long ago and with the implications of this new information her friend had just bestowed. “Was that how you…” but Anne stopped herself from finishing the question, knowing it was impolite and far too penetrating. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

“It is,” May admitted, shame polluting her tone. “I was two years younger than you when I met Elijah’s father. I love my son, despite all he’s done, and I would never change his being my boy. I only wish I could have changed the circumstances of his birth. I…well, I never married Elijah’s father, not that he asked, or stayed. It’s not easy for a child growing up with only a mama and everyone knowing why. Perhaps if I’d had someone to guide me on how these matters are done…I might have made different choices.”

Anne watched as Mary lowered her gaze, ashamed and sad, and the redhead simply wouldn’t have it. Reaching across the table, Anne placed her hands on Mary’s face, encouraging the woman to look at her, and the dejected expression Mary wore was enough to have Anne feeling both heartache and indignation. 

“You just told me that conception involves a man and woman, that means part of the responsibility lays with Elijah’s father. It’s not fair that the world puts so much blame on women, but _I_ will never see you as wicked, Mary. Never. Not for that.”

“You are something else, Anne-girl,” Mary sighed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she patted one of the girl’s hands at her face. “Alright, back to the subject. What did Marilla tell you when you started your menses?”

Pleased that Mary still wanted to teach her, Anne sat back down.

“She said my body was prepared to make a baby, but that the blood means I did not conceive. I asked if that meant the blood would stop when I do conceive and when she said ‘yes’ I declared I didn’t know why women weren’t pregnant all the time since menses are so inconvenient.”

That blunt assertation made Mary laugh so hard she had tears coming down her cheeks again and Anne was glad she could make her dear friend laugh even though the story she’d just told was mortifying.

“And what did Marilla say of a boy’s part in making the baby?” Mary wondered when her giggles were under control.

“She didn’t,” Anne said. “Only that my husband and I would make a baby together and my menses simply meant that my body was mature enough to do so.”

“So she never explained intercourse?”

“No,” Anne answered, intrigued by the word. “Intercourse?”

“Mmm,” Mary hummed. “That’s what the act is called; when a man and woman join to make a baby.”

“Join? How?” Anne cried, grey eyes alight with curiosity.

“You understand that reproduction and conception are to do with your body and the body of a man,” Mary reiterated. Anne nodded. “Some of the babies you’ve helped deliver must have been boys.” Again, Anne nodded. “So you know that boys and girls are built differently?”

“Oh!” Anne exclaimed, blushing as she took in Mary’s serious expression and mouthed ‘member’ while pointedly darting her eyes down to her lap.

“Yes, that,” Mary clarified. “All boys have one, just as all girls…don’t. Does this make sense so far?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I believe that when the woman you lived with spoke of a man’s mouse, she was referring to a man’s member,” Mary started, eyes steady and determined as they watched Anne absorb the information. “When a man becomes impassioned, as can happen if a woman – _ahem_ —pets him, his member will prepare to proceed with intercourse. The man and woman will join, and when the act is consummated the man will spill inside the woman and she may—”

“So, Tillie was right!” Anne bemoaned, grey eyes going wide in horror as her hands flew up to cup her face. “It is like animal husbandry!”

“It’s not!” Mary quickly interjected before Anne could lose herself to her panic. “It’s not…the exact same. The mechanics – what goes where – I admit…yes, they’re the same.”

“That’s dreadful!” Anne protested. “It sounds unpleasant. Horrid! Why would any woman do it?!”

“Because it can be wonderful,” Mary confessed, trying not to laugh at Anne’s obvious distress. “It can feel so…so marvelous; pleasurable. Truly.”

“But…the joining…doesn’t it hurt?” Anne asked, uncomfortable simply thinking about it.

Her imagination ran rampant with all manner of detestable visions, fueled by the memory of when she’d accidentally seen Gilbert’s horse, Beau, mount her beautiful Belle. It had been comical at the time since Gilbert had clumsily shielded her eyes when she’d stumbled upon the breeding, and Mathew had begged her not to tell Marilla what she’d seen. It had all seemed like a silly and embarrassing incident long forgotten, but now Anne understood that the actions she’d witnessed between the horses had been what caused Belle’s pregnancy, the mare having given birth last summer to twin ponies; Bronze, who was living at the orchard, and Butterscotch, who was at Green Gables.

“There are things that can be done to prepare the woman’s body to…receive a man,” Mary explained delicately.

“What things?” Anne asked.

“Kissing and touching,” Mary admitted, “but like you said, a different sort of kissing and touching than one might share with a suitor.”

“If it’s as you say,” Anne started carefully, still unsure, “then why aren’t there more babies?”

“Because a baby doesn’t happen every time,” Mary said, patting her belly.

“So you and Bash…more than once?” Anne couldn’t help asking.

“More than once.”

“Mary,” Anne sighed, resting an elbow on the table so she might hold her head up in her palm as she tried to process the surprising truths her friend had provided. “This is all so much…and so confusing.”

Seeing the girl’s anguish, Mary moved to stand beside Anne, letting her hug her tightly around the waist, her cheek pressed tenderly to Mary’s belly, soothed by the little movements she could feel under the flesh. It helped Anne reconcile her confused feelings on reproduction, believing that an act that could bring new life into the world couldn’t be a bad thing, despite how uncomfortable it sounded.

“Anne, please listen to what I say carefully,” Mary said after a moment, urging the sixteen-year old to look her in the eye. “Only share yourself with someone who respects and cherishes you. I am telling you, as someone who has been with a man who didn’t love me and a man who does, sharing yourself with the person who loves you and you love back makes every difference. When we love, we give that person our heart and trust that they will not crush it, and when we give them our body we trust that they will not tarnish it. And if you give yourselves to one another in love, when you make love…whatever comes of it will be beautiful.”

“Goodness,” Anne sighed, taken with the poetry of Mary’s words. “No wonder no one talks about it. It all seems so intimate.”

“And that’s why it’s called ‘intimate relations’, Anne-girl,” Mary said, smiling in that knowing way, kissing the crown of the girl’s fiery head before returning to the stove and the soup that was nearly ready.

Deciding that she needed time to absorb and catalogue all she’d been told, Anne made herself useful by helping to tidy up the kitchen, singing softly to herself as she wiped down the counters, put the spice basket away, and cleaned the dishes. If not for a single question that suddenly flashed in her mind with the dazzling insistence of a perfect sunrise, Anne might not have said another word to Mary on the subject for weeks.

“Mary…how will I know if I’m in love?”

At that moment, the door swung open and Gilbert and Bash came stomping in, the pair laughing over some shared joke, their hands brown with dirt and bodies covered in a sheen of drying sweat.

“Mary, my angel, what smells so marvellous?” Bash wondered as he shook his coat off.

“Anne. Hello,” Gilbert said, smiling the moment he said her name, surprised and pleased to see her in his kitchen. He quirked a brow when she didn’t greet him back. Rather, the girl looked at her neighbour with an unreadable expression, grey eyes staring with unblinking wonder at his chest. Looking down, Gilbert nearly yelped when he realized he was only in his work shirt, having left his waistcoat in the field, meaning he was standing before Anne in nothing but a top that was so threadbare he may as well be half naked!

No wonder she was giving him such a queer look.

Crossing his arms and suddenly very shy, especially as he noticed Bash chuckling at his discomfort, Gilbert tried to act casual as he looked back at Anne, hoping she didn’t notice his blush. His action seemed to break the spell the girl had been under, and Anne quickly shifted her gaze up to lock with Gilbert’s. The pair became caught in one another’s stare, not unlike when they’d danced at the school a few days ago. Once again, Anne and Gilbert were pulled by the gravity of the other’s orbit, drawn close without really being able to say why, the world around them fading away until it was just the two of them and a distance between their bodies that each wished desperately to bridge.

“What are you doing here?” Gilbert asked, hazel eyes warm and inviting, making Anne feel as if she were curled up next to a cozy hearth.

“I…I-I-I’m helping –”

“Here’s the soup for Mathew,” Mary said, handing the stuttering redhead the pail now steaming with the fresh soup. She flashed her husband a knowing glance, Bash shaking his head at the comical hopelessness of the two young people standing in their kitchen. 

Abruptly, Anne took the pail, thanked Mary as she secured the lid on the bucket , then bolted out of the kitchen with barely a goodbye, rushing so quickly past Gilbert on her way out that she left a brisk breeze in her wake. She never saw the confused look that changed Gilbert’s soft expression, but she felt him watch her walk away and it sent a shiver up her spine when she admitted, for the first time, that she’d always been able to feel him watching her.

Perhaps that was why the dance has been so invigorating; Gilbert’s eyes had been locked on her the entire time. On her face, her braids, her dress, her hands, her body, and even, for a flash of a moment, her mouth.

Anne bit her lip when she remembered that, her impertinent imagination about to launch into a fantasy where it was just she and Gilbert practicing the dance in the schoolhouse, their clothes damp from a rainstorm that had forced them to seek shelter in the building, thunder and lighting raging overhead as Gilbert pulled her close and, rather than continue with the correct steps, placed her hand over his trembling heart, lowered his face to hers, closed his eyes and…

The tickle came back, and with it a yearning so gargantuan that Anne had to lean against a tree to catch her breath.

This was ridiculous!

She’d known, had even almost come to accept, that she liked Gilbert very much. More specifically, she liked him in more than a friendly way. She didn’t know if she could proclaim she loved him, but she suspected she had a crush on him and probably had for a long time. It was all so confusing, trying to sort through feelings of amity and ardour and now desire. There was also the complication of Ruby’s feelings for Gilbert, but Anne couldn’t even spare a moment to sort out that matter, not when she was barely able to focus on her own troubles.

Emotion really could be so dreadful sometimes.

Resolved to unpack all that she’d learned (and was feeling) for another day, Anne brushed the bark off her coat and hurried back to Green Gables before Mary’s wonderful soup cooled.

The house was quiet when she entered. The kitchen hearth was cold which meant Marilla was still abed, the poor soul utterly drained. Setting aside some soup for her mother, Anne made quick work of preparing a tray for Mathew, filling a bowl with the chicken soup, buttering two thick cuts of bread, slicing a strawberry apple into neat quarters and sprinkling them with cinnamon, filling a tin mug with tea, and adding a small vase of daisies to the tray for a final, cheery touch.

Carefully, Anne brought the tray to Mathew’s room, pleased when she saw him sitting up in bed. He was reading a book, the tome shaking some in his weakened grip, but his blue eyes had lost the milky sheen of illness and his skin was not nearly so pale as it had been the day before. When he spotted Anne entering his room, Mathew smiled and marked his page before setting his book aside and inviting the redhead to keep him company while he ate.

“Tell me about your day,” he requested, taking his first sip of the soup and humming for how delicious it was, gracing his girl with a grateful smile. Anne returned her father’s kind affection, smiling at him and pulling a chair close to his bed, leaning on the mattress as she looked up at the man who had shown her such love and devotion from the first moment they met.

“I have come to a conclusion,” she announced, pausing for a dramatic moment so Mathew could lower his spoon and give her his full attention. “Maturity is exhausting.”

Chuckling – and then having to stop himself as a series of weak, wheezing coughs trickled from his chest – Mathew couldn’t help but agree with Anne’s blunt assessment. Whatever she had learned that day to cause her to make such a proclamation was no doubt exactly as she’d put it, exhausting. Luckily, if there was one thing Mathew Cuthbert knew how to do, it was cheer up his passionate daughter.

“Here now,” he said, handing Anne the cup, knowing she took her tea the same as he. “I reckon a nice cup of tea will set things right.”

Taking the mug, Anne took a sip, relishing the hot drink (a tad bitter with a slice of lemon) before returning the cup to Mathew, the older man taking a sip as well before putting it back on the tray and offering Anne one of the slices of bread.

“Sweet Mathew,” she said, taking the bread in one hand and reaching out with the other to pat his foot affectionately, feeling wonderfully at ease for the first time since her dance with Gilbert days ago, “I would be lost in a sea of woe without you. As always, you know exactly what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, that whole ‘is-that-how-reproduction-works’ scene *chef kiss* peek comedy on AWAE. 
> 
> It was so much fun writing it, then adding to the mix not only Anne’s genuine curiosity about marital relations but also her own unexplored, and totally new, sexual feelings for Gilbert was such a treat.
> 
> I was so happy to get to write an Anne and Mary scene. Again, love S3, but this was another relationship I wish I’d seen more of, especially when they did comment that Anne spent Saturdays with Mary learning how to cook (and I have a headcannon that Mary specifically taught Anne how to make Gilbert’s favourite meals, cuz we all know Mary was a Shirbert stan | Another random headcannon: Gilbert’s horse sired Butterscotch). 
> 
> Also, had Mary been alive at this point in the series, she is absolutely the one that Anne would have sought for answers on reproduction and sexual education. And because of her own past of being a very young unwed mother, I also believe Mary would be honest about sex with Anne, not just the mechanics, but the emotions and choices surrounding the act itself. 
> 
> And who knows, perhaps this information will become valuable to Anne sometime down the line in this fic (but make no mistake, this is not an M or E rating fic, I’m just saying, sometimes when you’re making out with your SO, you gotta check yourself before things go too far, especially when you’re learning each other – in that way – for the first time). 
> 
> Next Chapter: the May Long Weekend is just around the corner, but who will be going to the picnic with who?
> 
> A huge round of hugs and kisses for every reader, kudos-er, bookmarker, subscriber, and commenter!


	6. Very Confusing Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The May long weekend has arrived and everyone is wants to know who will be attending the picnic with whom

_‘Dear Anne,_

_I know that those you meet will love you at first sight, just as I did, and I urge you to never be shy, or silent, about your feelings, especially for others. It’s so dreadful what little things lead people to misunderstand both stranger and friend alike…’_

* * *

Fridays were a day often teeming with restlessness.

Besides being the beginning of the weekend, this Friday felt all the more rambunctious as it was the first truly warm day of spring, the sun so cheery and yellow and temperate that the students of Avonlea happily forfeited their coats and hats to rush around outside during the noon break, playing tag or red-rover, or even dipping their toes in the little creek. Another reason spirits were so high was that the May long weekend had arrived at last, meaning not only that Monday’s classes were cancelled due to the holiday, but that there was a picnic and dance to look forward to. 

Gilbert couldn’t say if he was nervous or excited for the dance.

He’d always enjoyed the Queen’s birthday celebrations, memories of attending the picnic with his father some of his most fond. He remembered playing in the three-legged race with Charlie, listening to the band, winning the fishing competition, eating until he had to undo the top button of his trousers, and making faces at the older boys as they were forced to showcase in the opening dance of the evening. Now it was his turn to take to the dancefloor and be teased by Avonlea’s younger lads, but honestly, the eighteen-year old couldn’t find it in himself to be bothered.

He’d be dancing with Anne, after all.

Or, at least, he hoped he’d be dancing with Anne.

There was the small matter of asking to escort her to the picnic, something Gilbert had been unable to do successfully despite several attempts over the last month.

At first he’d tried to ask her after another dance practice, easing into the question by complimenting her dainty footwork which somehow led Anne into accusing him of saying that she normally trod about like an elephant, and so she’d left the schoolhouse in a huff and didn’t speak to him for two days afterwards.

Next, Gilbert tried to be suave. They’d been walking home from school together and, when an opportunity in the conversation came up, he said, confidently, that he’d see her at the dance, to which Anne remarked that of course he would, the whole town would be there. He remembered the look of bemused concern that had her ginger brows arching and mouth curling in an odd frown, as if she were worried for his mental stability.

The third through fifth attempts were all equally abysmal, his words not coming out right, or being misinterpreted.

For his sixth attempt, Gilbert decided to write his request to Anne. He wouldn’t go as far as to ask her via the Take Notice Board (besides having been honest when he’d told her he wasn’t a take notice kind of guy, the very idea of proclaiming his intentions on a board for the whole town to read seemed tasteless), but he’d slipped the message in her coat pocket, just as he’d done with her birthday riddle. Unfortunately, that plan went south when, after Charlie had insulted Anne by insisting girls didn’t possess the constitution to play football, she’d had to rectify the poor idiot’s thinking by absolutely thrashing him and his team in a game of boys versus girls. It had been raining hard that morning so the afternoon challenge was completed in the slippery mud, Anne’s coat a sopping, stinking, brown mess by the time she was able to claim her victory, which came at the price of being grounded for a fortnight and her jacket and all its contents being ruined.

When Gilbert had tried to write his humble request to escort Anne again, Bash had stumbled upon him, managing to catch a few words of the note while snooping over Gilbert’s shoulder. The Trinidadian had taken far too much glee in teasing his young friend, dancing around the room, pantomiming how Anne would thrill at the invitation, but only after berating him for not having the pluck to ask her straightforwardly, before ultimately declaring that he had won because he had known from the start that Gilbert was in love with Anne. It was Bash’s ludicrous behaviour – and his easy proclamation of _love_ – that had Gilbert scrapping the note and giving up on asking Anne at all for a few days.

But now it was the Friday before the long weekend and Gilbert was determined to ask Anne. It was simply a matter of timing, and during lunch while sequestered in the supply room with his teacher reading over the various newspapers from the Maritimes and the rest of Canada was not exactly the ideal moment.

“Emily has made the papers again,” Ms. Stacy said proudly, reviewing an article in Toronto’s _Evening Star_.

“And what has the brilliant Dr. Oak pioneered this time?” Gilbert wondered, having been delighted with Ms. Stacy’s stories of her friend, one of the first dozen women in Canada to earn their medical licence. He’d even been invited to write to the woman and had done so a few times, asking for guidance in his own journey towards practical medicine, and the responses he’d received were insightful.

“She’s working out of the University of Toronto now,” Ms. Stacy noted. “I didn’t realize she’d left Dalhousie. Hmm…it says she’s part of a team exploring the complex and fascinating subject of antitoxin development.”

“Funny, Dr. Ward and I were talking about antitoxins last month,” Gilbert said, lowering his copy of _The Globe_.

“What’s an antitoxin?”

Gilbert spun quickly in his chair, rising up to greet Anne as she entered the small room, neither adolescent noticing the shrewd look their teacher was pointedly giving them from just over her newspaper.

“Hello,” he greeted as if she hadn’t sat across from him all morning. But Gilbert couldn’t let himself think his words were foolish, not when the redhead returned his salutation with a bright smile. “Um, so an antitoxin is a new kind of preventative medicine,” he started, eyes trained on Anne’s figure as she moved to Ms. Stacy’s chair and perched on the arm, giving the young man her full attention. “It’s pretty advanced, mostly being researched and tested in Europe. I read that there’s a physiologist in Berlin who is starting clinical trials on an antitoxin for diphtheria –”

“Spell it!” Anne interrupted and Gilbert rolled his eyes as his teacher silently chuckled.

The pair were still engaged in a war of spelling oration, neither one having yet spelled a word wrong. In an attempt at seeing one declared the victor since their draw over a month ago, Anne and Gilbert had taken to simply demanding the other spell a word as it came up in conversation, the element of surprise adding a thrilling component to their challenge.

“D-I-P-H-T-H-E-R-I-A,” Gilbert said, only stumbling for a moment around the second ‘h’. Anne offered a short bow to him, and now the ball was in Gilbert’s court and the next word to spell would be his to decide. “But it’s not just diphtheria,” he continued, as if the spelling challenge hadn’t happened at all. “I’ve read there have been successful trials of antitoxins on patients suffering with croup.”

“Truly?” Anne asked, in awe as she imagined a world where little children need not fear a long and frightening night of shallow breaths and mucus-thickened bile choking their lungs as poor Minnie May had had to endure three years ago.

“Mm,” Gilbert said, nodding his head and moving to stand near Anne. “And the trials are showing good results. The antitoxins are working, even though Dr. Ward called all of it poppycock.”

“Most people have a hard time trusting new ideas,” Ms. Stacy assuaged.

“She’s right,” Anne agreed. “You’ll see a world of difference in acceptance and open-mindedness once you’re welcomed in the hallowed halls of Redmond.”

“We don’t even know if I’ll be accepted,” Gilbert argued, shying away from speaking of the school, especially with one of the reasons he was seriously considering as a motive not to go to Kingsport.

“You will,” Anne said casually, as if her firm belief would make the future so.

“I haven’t finished my entrance essay,” he pointed out.

“And why not? The notes I gave you should have been more than helpful,” Anne said, a bit vain in her regard for her prowess as a writer. “Should I set a deadline for you like Ms. Stacy does for us with the paper?”

“He does have a deadline,” Ms. Stacy interjected. “Dominion Day. That’s when the regular admission window closes; anything after that is considered late and is put on a waiting list with no guarantee of admittance. So, hop to it, young man. And don’t forget those letters of reference, too. Have you found your third person yet?”

“No,” Gilbert confessed guiltily, “but Dr. Ward says he’ll have his ready for me in two weeks or so.”

“That’s bringing you into June, Gilbert,” Ms. Stacy warned, not having to complete her thought that the eighteen-year old was cutting it close. Gilbert cringed under his teacher’s disapproval and made a mental note to inquire with Mr. Barry about writing a letter of reference, though he wasn’t fond of the idea of mixing his education with his business.

While distracted by Ms. Stacy’s lecture, Gilbert was unprepared for Anne to snatch his newspaper from his weak grasp, her hands quickly shuffling through the thin paper until she alighted on the section she’d been seeking.

“So many incredible lives,” she sighed, grey eyes taking in the little editorials. “I know it must seem morose to find fascination with an obituary, but when you think about it – a person’s life memorialized for all to share – I can’t help feeling that there is a noble dignity in the practice. Do you think we might include obituaries in our little paper?”

“Maybe if you can spell it,” Gilbert teased before Ms. Stacy could give Anne a proper answer, their teacher rolling her eyes at the pair before rising from her chair and heading for the classroom.

“O-B-I-T-U-A-R-Y,” Anne recited smugly. “Why don’t you just concede defeat? You’re not going to win.”

“You’re sure of yourself,” Gilbert countered playfully, taking a step closer, able now to catch the scent of violets wafting from his friend, and he wondered if it was from the blossoms he’d spotted in her hat or if it was from the soap she used in the morning to wash her face.

“Only because history has proven me the better speller,” Anne went on confidently. “You couldn’t even spell engagement the first time we faced-off.”

“I don’t remember that,” Gilbert lied.

He’d vowed to take the truth of that spelling bee to his grave (he knew how to spell engagement perfectly well and had thrown the game because he could see that Anne wasn’t feeling well; plus he was offered to perfect opportunity to make that clever quip about her name), especially since the way Anne remembered that day seemed to please her. Besides, the fact she brought it up at all allowed for the perfect window for Gilbert to veer the subject towards that single question he’d been trying to ask his best friend for weeks.

“But speaking of engagements…” he trailed off, waiting for Anne to pull her attention from the paper and look at him. When she did, she soundlessly gasped at how close he was, almost towering over her as he braced an arm on the back of the chair, his face so near that Anne could count the little specks of green and gold in his eyes. She felt a flush start to heat her cheeks but wasn’t too embarrassed as Gilbert was sporting his own blush, his ears having turned as red as apples as he swallowed thickly and finally spoke. “I’ve been wondering…would you want to –”

“Anne!” Diana cried, pushing into the supply room and almost knocking Gilbert aside as she reached for her friend. “You’re on the board!” she announced. "Charlie noticed you!”

Anne couldn’t help how her jaw dropped and eyes went wide in shock at Diana’s announcement. Uneasily, she darted her grey gaze over to Gilbert, utterly crestfallen as she watched his expression morph from one of open eagerness to something closed off, discouraged, and even a trace annoyed. Before she could ask him why he had that look on his face – and maybe insist he finish what he was going to ask her – Diana had looped her arm through Anne’s and was pulling the sixteen-year old out of the supply room and into the sweet smelling outdoors.

“Oh, Anne!” Tillie tittered, along with the rest of the girls who were giggling behind their hands as Anne and Diana joined them at the back of the school. They were flanking the Take Notice Board, sentries to the smitten secrets of Avonlea’s youth, and Anne didn’t even try to fight back the cringe that made her shoulders tense.

“ _‘Charlie thinks that Anne Shirley-Cuthbert-Sloane has a lovely ring to it’_ ,” she read aloud, and had to restrain herself from gagging.

“Isn’t that marvelous?” Tillie exclaimed.

“What’s so marvelous?!” Anne demanded. “I used to think my plain name could never be spoiled further, but to pair it with Sloane? It sounds like groan. Crone. Tone. It’s horrible.”

“But Anne, you’ve been proposed to!” Ruby swooned.

“I have not!” Anne refuted violently, ripping the notice from the board and tearing it into a dozen little pieces.

“No, Anne!”

“Stop!”

“You’ll regret that.”

“Well, there goes the only bid for marriage you’ll ever get,” Josie mocked, watching the tatters of paper flutter to the dirt.

“Josie!” Anne all but screamed. “Has it ever occurred to you that there is more to a woman than the man she marries? The world holds more for us than simply being someone’s wife.”

“She sounds like one of those crazy suffragettes,” Jane muttered in Tillie’s ear, casting wary brown eyes in her friend’s direction.

“It’s not crazy to wish to be taken seriously as my own autonomous being, independent of my closest male relative, Jane!” Anne lectured, fed up with how her friends could view the desire to be recognized as a person, regardless of what gender she was, as something radical. “Women matter on their own, and deserve respect and dignity, because we are people. Whole people! From the moment we’re born! Not once we’ve been noticed, or are being courted, or even engaged or married. And all these rules, these despicable laws and boundaries placed on us to hold us back, take our voices, our choices, make us question our thoughts, even refuse us a say in our bodies, have got to be changed. Because I don’t need Charlie to notice me to know I’m valuable, and I’m not obligated to accept him or his proposal – even though it is certainly _not_ a proposal – for the compliment of his regard.

“I am so sick and tired of this backwards inequality. Girls can do anything boys can. In fact, there is one thing we can do that they can’t! Have any of you seen a woman give birth? I have, and I tell you that it takes such strength, and courage, and sheer force of will that it is called labour for good reason. Our bodies have the power to create and bring life, just as our minds have the capability and rationale to form cohesive thoughts about the world, and no law is going to tell me that I am something less than a boy when I know what I am capable of in both body and mind.

“Girls, we are strong, intelligent, radiant beings in our own right who shouldn’t have to cow to an archaic system that leaves us uninformed and afraid. We are modern women, the ladies of a new century! Isn’t that why we’re all going to college? To become something for ourselves; to be vessels and voices for change for all girls everywhere. The twentieth century will be led by women, and I for one intend to heed the call and take charge. I will live a life with no regrets, because I will live according to the rules of my own self.”

When she finished, the girls were slack jawed, the schoolyard having gone quiet. There was a residual buzzing in Anne’s ears as her ire cooled, and she realized she’d more than made a scene, but as the subject was something near and dear to her heart she forced herself not to be too self conscious of the many eyes pinning her in place. For the longest minutes of Anne’s life, she stood still and silent, the wind hardly breezing past the gang of friends, their skirts making not a sound as they were ruffled. Even the scent of the surrounding field didn’t dare burst the strange bubble that encapsulated the girls at the back of the schoolhouse.

“Anne’s right,” Ruby said, banishing the silence. In fact, her small voice making such a declaration was astoundingly more powerful than Anne’s entire impassioned speech. “We can do anything boys can,” she continued, eyes bright with revelation. “And it’s not fair to languish in heartsickness for the one you adore to take notice.”

“Oh Ruby, I’m so glad,” Anne said, raising a hand to squeeze her friend’s arm. She knew it must have taken all of Ruby’s nerve to admit that her crush on Gilbert was hopeless and that she was finally ready to move on.

“Not when there’s nothing stopping you taking notice of them first!”

“Wait. What?’ Anne asked flatly, anxiety starting to churn around her chest.

“I’m going to do what you said, Anne,” Ruby responded, her smile wide and a tad terrifying. “We are the women of the twentieth century, and it’s time we started acting like it. I’m going to use my own voice, and follow my own heart, and I’ll ask Gilbert to the picnic myself if he won’t pluck up the courage to ask me first.”

The rest of the girls seemed just as astounded by Ruby’s announcement as Anne was, though they expressed themselves with squeaks and gasps and twittering titters while Anne struggled to find even a few words. 

“Ruby…that’s not…I didn’t mean for you –” 

“Wish me luck!”

And in a bouncy puff of pink, Ruby dashed for the front of the school. After the briefest pause, the rest of the girls followed, save for Anne and Diana, the former in a state of petrification while the latter stared on with lip pinched concern.

“Anne?” Diana ventured gently, afraid to even touch her friend as she seemed so fragile in that moment she was sure Anne would shatter.

But with a gasp, Anne was suddenly revived and sprung into action, darting for the back door to the supply room (adjacent to the Take Notice Board), slipping through so she could cut Ruby off from the front of the classroom, but when she passed through the door it was too late. Ruby and Gilbert were standing by the stove, the rest of their classmates having ceased preparing for the afternoon’s lessons to witness the astonishing drama. From the way the air was shaking with anticipation it was clear Ruby had made her request proud and publicly and was now fervently awaiting an answer.

Anne couldn’t see Gilbert’s face, his back completely to her, but she did note that his head swiveled subtly from side-to-side, as if he were looking for something or someone, his shoulders tense, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists, and his spine was so straight Anne was sure even a ruler couldn’t be more erect. And then it was as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut, for his body went lax and his head bowed a moment before nodding. It looked as if he were saying something as well, but Anne didn’t need to hear the words, not when Ruby’s face lit up with the same dazzling brilliance of a Christmas tree dressed in a hundred candles.

Gilbert had accepted Ruby’s invitation.

“Anne?” Diana whispered, having stood by her friend throughout the exchange.

“I’m fine,” Anne replied curtly before Diana could ask or worse, insist.

She didn’t want to talk about her feelings on Ruby and Gilbert because there were none other than happiness that two of her friends were destined to find romance within each other’s arms. In fact, Anne was so happy for the pair that she slithered to her desk just as Ms. Stacy called the class to order, hoisted a book in front of her face and kept it there for the duration of the afternoon’s lessons. She ignored Ruby’s breathless joy and turned her back on Gilbert’s side-eyed stare, remaining unusually quiet throughout the afternoon. When Ms. Stacy dismissed the students, there was a cacophony of cheers that drowned out the teacher’s call over what homework to have completed by Tuesday, her students rushing away as eagerly as if escaping from prison.

All except for two.

“Well, Gilbert, Anne, sorry you have to begin your long weekend with extra time at school,” she apologized.

Not that Anne and Gilbert had ever minded when they’d had to stay late on a Friday before. It was one of the less appealing responsibilities of being co-editors of the _Avonlea Gazette_ , but it was a task that was sometimes necessary, especially when an edition was late getting to press. This afternoon would be no different from countless other afternoons the two friends had remained behind on their own at the school. It didn’t matter that neither was truly able to look the other in the eye or that there seemed to be a force both pulling and pushing them away from one another, the pair stiff in their uncertainty.

“I was able to complete the typesetting, so it shouldn’t take you too long to finish the printing,” Ms. Stacy carried on, grabbing a suitcase she’d stashed in the supply room that morning. “I suspect fifty copies will be more than enough; so many families leave to visit relatives on the long weekend, as you can see.”

“You have a safe trip, Ms. Stacy,” Gilbert said kindly, already rolling up his sleeves as he pulled the ink pad and roller from a cupboard.

“Say ‘hello’ to your sister and her family for me,” Anne requested, not in her usual jovial tone, but the words were sincere all the same.

“Have a lovely time at the picnic, you two,” Ms. Stacy said, and Anne’s heart lurched painfully. “Don’t forget to lock up.”

And with a quick step, Ms. Stacy left the schoolhouse and Anne and Gilbert were alone. For a long stretch of minutes the two friends avoided looking at one another, Anne rooted firmly to her desk while Gilbert stood idly by the ink pad. When she finally did find the nerve to look at him, Anne thought she spotted remorse and even a hue of shame colour Gilbert’s hazel eyes, but she quickly dismissed the thought. She was only assuming Gilbert was sorry for accepting Ruby’s invitation because now he was forced to be alone with the one person who knew his feelings for the blond were non-existent.

Or perhaps Gilbert hoped that Anne had forgotten their conversation of a couple of months ago about taking notice, or rather, his disdain for taking notice and taking notice of Ruby in particular.

But what good would lingering accomplish? Gilbert had accepted Ruby’s bold invitation. It wasn’t as if Anne thought he might ask her (she had), or that she would have accepted him if he had (she would), so what was the point in being bitter over it? Had she been interested in exploring her feelings, Anne might have come to the conclusion that she was jealous, but she reasoned that was impossible since being jealous would imply that Gilbert was hers and if there was one thing Gilbert Blythe most certainly was not, it was Anne’s.

“Did you want to discuss the layout for next week’s edition?” Gilbert wondered after he'd rolled a generous amount of ink on the typeset, the silence between them feeling as if it were being cut with a dull knife.

“Would we truly be doing anything different than we normally do?” she asked back petulantly, rising from her desk to take her place alongside the printing press. She waited for Gilbert to lay down a sheet of paper and move the bed under the pressing stones before mechanically gripping the devil's tail and pulling it hard so that the press could do its magic.

“What does that mean?” Gilbert asked.

“It means we always write about the same thing!” Anne whinged, releasing the lever so Gilbert could pull the bed back and remove the paper. As Gilbert hung the paper to dry, Anne switched her position and rolled out the ink on the typesetting as Gilbert now shifted to press the paper which Anne removed and hung up before attending to the bar again, and back and forth in an easy rotation the task went.

This systematic way of completing a print was normally something fun shared between the pair, with laughter and teasing and far too much smudged ink on hands, faces and clothes. Today, however, all revelry was drained from the task, the job of creating the _Avonlea Gazette_ suddenly changed into an arduous chore made all the more unpleasant by the company.

“Prize winning pigs, whose garden fence was broken, fertilizer tips and tricks, it’s always the same thing. Why do we have this marvelous machine if we’re not going to utilize it for affecting real change? Why are we not writing about the Harriman expedition, or rising tensions with the Boer Republics, or HSA editorials? I’m sure I could write a piece on the Mi’kmaq, their way of life, their hardships living on the reservation; create something that helps people to understand and, because of that, be more kind.”

“Those are all fine ideas, Anne, but Ms. Stacy said it best this morning; most people have a hard time trusting new things.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t even try?” Anne accused.

“No!” Gilbert cried, voice rising in answer to Anne’s outlandish and hurtful claim. “I’m saying if we do decide to go that route we need to do so carefully and with caution, especially if we want to win over the town.”

Anne didn’t respond to Gilbert’s exceptionally rational reply, and so continued with the motions of printing the paper, another cloak of dreaded silence enveloping them.

“If you’d like to go, I can finish here,” Anne offered after fifteen minutes and another dozen prints.

“I don’t want to go,” Gilbert said.

“Are you sure? Isn’t Ruby waiting for you?”

“Ruby? No. And what does sh—”

“Or is it that you think I can’t handle the printing press on my own?” Anne demanded, hackles raised as if she were a cat set to defend its territory.

“I didn’t say that and I would never in the first place!” Gilbert fired back, his own ire boiling as he tried to sort out why Anne was so angry. “I know you helped Ms. Stacy take this thing apart and put it back together. Just before Christmas you fixed the till when it snapped.”

“Exactly, so shouldn’t that tell you something?” Anne snarled, arms crossed and feet braced apart, a warrior set on protecting her honour.

“I can’t say for sure, since you’re being so obnoxious,” Gilbert retaliated, copying Anne’s stance, feeling his blood heat in a strange mix of offence, indignation, and a feral want. It was as if the more incensed Anne got, the more he was compelled to provoke her, a foolish boy poking at flames with a stick that was getting ever shorter.

Strangely, Gilbert didn’t mind the idea of getting burned.

“I don’t need your help,” Anne declared, cutting and almost cruel. “I never have.”

“Yes. I’ve taken notice of that,” Gilbert retorted, unable to help the small measure of satisfaction he felt when Anne physically balked at his spiteful words.

Her grey eyes were boring holes into his skull, and for a moment the phantom sting of another head injury inflicted long ago by this same passionate girl throbbed about Gilbert’s temple. He ignored the pounding and instead kept his gaze locked with Anne’s. She was so furious he wasn’t sure if she was going to slap him or yell at him or if she’d get the chance to do either before he reached out and cupped her neck so he could pull her close for a bruising kiss.

That arousing image nearly had Gilbert acting on instinct, but he reined himself in when he noticed how glassy Anne’s grey eyes had gone at his scathing comment and he realized she wasn’t going to strike him or scream…she was going to cry.

All furious ardor drained from Gilbert in an instant, as if his body was dunked in a tub of ice-cold water. His features immediately softened to chagrined contrition, but Anne never saw the apology already forming on his lips because she turned away and marched out of the classroom. Gilbert didn’t try to stop her from leaving, mostly because he felt it would only make everything worse, and because he thought it would be kinder to offer Anne some semblance of dignity by allowing her an uninterrupted retreat.

After violently wrenching her hat and coat from the cloakroom, Anne threw open the door and slammed it behind her. With a hard and angry step, the redhead stomped through the schoolyard, but her righteous gait was halted when she spotted Charlie by the creek. He’d been sitting on a stump, clearly waiting for her since, when he spotted Anne, he stood immediately, tugging at his waistcoat and trying to push back his wavy hair. The sight of the boy was enough to almost make Anne groan, for she truly did not wish to deal with him, but as she quickly dabbed at her eyes to ensure Charlie wouldn’t see her cry, she noticed he had a familiar basket cradled in his hands.

“Is that mine?” she asked, reaching for the basket, which Charlie was quick to relinquish. “I dropped this, didn’t I?” she wondered aloud.

“Yes,” Charlie answered, awkwardly placing his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. “The day we walked together.”

“Right…” Anne said thoughtfully, recalling that long-ago afternoon when she’d been in an equally frustrated torrent of tormentable emotions of which Charlie had only added fuel to rather than quelled. “Thank you, then,” she said, making to leave, but stopped when Charlie sidestepped and impeded her path.

“I hope you don’t mind, but my great-aunt Birdie mended it for you,” he offered, mossy eyes darting down to the basket, Anne’s following suit and noticing that some of the wicker had been neatly patched.

“Please give her my sincere thanks,” Anne said, stilted and unsure and wanting very much to leave. “Charlie, I really must –”

“Would you go to the picnic with me?” Charlie asked, the question coming out so quickly it was as if it had been squeezed out of the young man’s diaphragm like dental cream from a tube.

“Why?” Anne found herself asking, surprising herself that she didn’t slap her classmate with a firm rejection. Her question seemed to have startled Charlie too, for he stammered a moment, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as he tried to express himself.

“I just think we’d have a nice time, is all. And because…Anne, I like you.”

And there it was: her first love confession.

Well, perhaps not love, but certainly an admittance of admiration. It may have been delivered by Charlie Sloane of all people, and Anne could acknowledge it was genuine, even sweet, but not in a way that gave her any sort of thrill. Charlie was never a boy she’d paid particular attention to, and he certainly wasn’t someone she ever considered as a romantic partner, hence her violent destruction his notice.

But out of all the boys in Avonlea, he _had_ noticed her, and even with her belief that she didn’t need a boy to feel complete, and her conviction that she would be no one’s bride save for the call of Adventure, Anne couldn’t help falling victim to her one and only fear:

That she would never be loved.

Not truly, and not in _that_ way, that passionate, poetic way that writers had been espousing for centuries. She was thirsty for every experience life had to offer, but especially yearned to drink from the fountain of romance and know its flavour.

And while Charlie may not be the taste she craved (for indeed, the essence Anne was parched for, tragically, did not want her), until she tried, how would she ever know for certain that all of it – courting, romance, passion, _love!_ – wasn’t for her? Anne would be a poor Bride of Adventure if she didn’t meet every new experience with an open mind and open heart, and what was stepping out with a boy from school to a town picnic if not an adventure, at least in its own way?

Mind made up, Anne swallowed thickly before taking a deep breath and giving Charlie her answer.

* * *

“You’re going to the picnic with Charlie?” Diana asked, too flabbergasted to move from her vanity as Anne riffled through the wardrobe, taking several dresses from their hangers and laying them over the bed.

“I am,” Anne answered, a hint of obstinate fury tinging her words, “and I need your help! I’ve decided to leap into this…outing, with both feet and I require every drop of your faithful support.”

“You have it,” Diana assured, coming to stand by Anne and wrapping an arm around her best friend.

True, Diana had been both perplexed and astonished when Anne had burst into her room first thing after breakfast on Saturday morning and announced she would be stepping out with Charlie Sloane at the Queen’s birthday picnic, but seeing the crazed panic in her dear Anne’s silver eyes only made the dark-haired girl’s heart ache for her friend. Of course she would support her, in any way she was able, and one of the best, but most complex, ways of doing that was to ease Anne into talking about her feelings, especially feelings she clearly had no desire to ruminate upon.

“I’m just in such a state of shock that you actually accepted his invitation. When you were so upset about his notice and then Ruby and Gil—”

“A dress! I need a dress!” Anne interrupted, her quick digression only causing the seventeen-year old further suspicion. Still, Diana kept silent as Anne carried on. “You’ve said yourself that wearing something special does wonders for a beleaguered soul, and I am in much need of some blithe – _cheerful_ – distraction. Now, which do you think I should wear?”

“Well, let’s see,” Diana said, staring at the dresses Anne had pilfered. “Do you know what Charlie will be wearing? If you do then you can match.”

“I don’t,” Anne admitted sheepishly. “Should I have asked him?!”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Diana assured, hoping her calm voice would ease her panicking friend. “Perhaps its better you don’t match. It could send the wrong message. That is…assuming you want to send a message. To the village? Or Charlie? Or someone else?”

“I just want to look beautiful,” Anne confessed, sniffing back a few tears. “Beautiful, and charming, the smartest in the room, the perfect companion. Someone others might look at and see…I…oh, Diana!”

And now Diana threw her arms around Anne and let her friend weep against her shoulder, the girl’s sobs making her whole body quake as Diana stood strong for the two of them.

“What have I done?!” Anne groused. “I said all those things to you and the girls. I said I didn’t need a boy, least of all Charlie, and now I’m going to the picnic with him, and I wish it was…Oh! I’m a hypocrite and fool!”

“Never,” Diana soothed, patting her friend’s scattered tresses. “Matters of the heart are, I confess, horribly confusing. One moment you think you understand what you want – what you should want…are _supposed_ to want – and then in the next second, a single ticking of the clock, everything changes and it’s as if the world has been turned on its head and all you thought you knew was wrong. It was _all_ wrong. And it’s frightening, but delicious, too, and so you feel compelled to simply be swept away because what else are you supposed to do? And then you surprise yourself when you realize that it’s not about what you thought at all, but what you feel. It’s always been about what you feel. And that can’t be wrong, not ever.”

“Bless you, dearest of Dianas,” Anne said in a hushed tone, lifting her head from her friend’s shoulder. Her cheeks were wet, eyes swollen, and nose dripping, but Anne was smiling, a gentle little grin that had Diana mirroring the expression. It was so soothing to know there would always be this precious person in the world with whom Anne could not only share every doubt and troublesome thought, but who also knew how to pull Anne back from within herself and shed a radiant light under which the redhead could find solace and understanding.

She truly would miss her too much when she left for Paris.

“How did you come by such wisdom?” Anne asked softly.

“Because I am the grounded and wise elder in our friendship, remember?” Diana teased, booping Anne on the nose and making her laugh, which was enough to distract Anne from the way Diana’s dark eyes shifted sadly to her little bookcase in the corner and lingered on the creased spine of _Frankenstein_. “Now, a dress.”

“Thank you,” Anne said, composing herself and returning her concentration to the beautiful clothes that lay before her. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss on this subject. I’ve no idea what’s appropriate to wear out to a picnic one’s attending with a boy.”

“Then we’ll take our time and pick something splendid,” Diana assured, lifting a deep plum dress that was trimmed in brilliant white lace. “We want to make sure you look your absolute best, that way you’re certain to have fun.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed, fingertips trailing over a yellow muslin that reminded her of buttercups. “I just know that if I resolve my mind to it wholeheartedly, I will have a simply wonderful time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Anne and Gilbert, why do you both have to fight so much?
> 
> Something I enjoyed about AWAE’s Gilbert is he doesn’t kowtow much to Anne’s stubbornness, or temper (mostly because he has his own to match in equal splendour) and he isn’t shy about taking his own stance in an argument with her, or telling her when he thinks she’s gone too far. That’s how the whole ‘I’ve taken notice of that’ scene read to me. Anne was being obnoxious, she upset him, and he wasn’t bothered to let her know it in an equally callous way.
> 
> That fraught tension is part of their chemistry, but it’s also something that will mellow once they get over the romantic tension which keeps them so on edge around each other (speaking of which, how badly did you want them to angry kiss across the printing press? As much as Gilbert did?). 
> 
> So, Anne and Gilbert are going to the Victoria Day picnic with different partners, but by no means does that mean I am writing a love triangle (square?). When it comes to how Anne and Gilbert feel for each other, there isn’t the confusion or temptation of another, merely a lot of miscommunication and missed opportunities, something you may see rectified in the next chapter.
> 
> But even if we all know who will end up with who (I’m really not trying to be sneaky in that regard) how about a round of applause for Ruby being a modern woman and making the scandalous decision to ask the boy out first! She certainly surprised Gilbert, not to mention Anne, all her friends, and even herself. I find Ruby a fascinating combination of traditional and modern values, all wrapped up in this endearing, if occasionally exasperating, sweet blond girl. Of course, how could she be anything but fierce when she has Anne to inspire her with passionate talks of equal rights, suffrage, and autonomy? 
> 
> Next Chapter: it’s Victoria Day and everything is about to go wrong (before going very right)
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you who have been reading, kudosing, subscribing, bookmarking, commenting, and simply enjoying this story. You are the reason these fingers keep typing!


	7. Not Your Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picnics, and dances, and moonshine, oh my!

_‘Dear Anne,_

_If you firmly make up your mind that you will enjoy something, then it simply will be so. Let it not be said that mind over matter isn’t exactly that: a state of mind. Perhaps things won’t work out the way you imagined them to, but they will work out all the same as long as you believe they will…’_

* * *

Anne was having a terrible time.

No matter how she tried to look at the bright side, reminding herself that the weather was lovely (clear blue sky and warm sun), and her dress so pretty (a baby blue one borrowed from Diana with lace trim on the collar and a satin ribbon at her waist), and her tarts perfect (the crust flaky and evenly browned while the raspberry centre wasn’t too sweet or too sour) and even her horrid red hair was cooperating (it had curled exactly as she wanted and the pearl-tipped bobby-pins held the tresses in a charming half-up do), the day simply wasn’t going right.

When she arrived at the picnic grounds – a flat green park with a few trees, some flowering bushes and a circular bandstand situated just a few yards from Avonlea’s town hall – Anne had been in high spirits. She’d done little else but chat incessantly about her hopes for the day, keeping her caretakers entertained (well, Mathew was entertained; Marilla was simply used to working around Anne’s enthusiasm) over the course of their morning and for the short buggy ride to the picnic. When they arrived, however, Charlie rushed immediately to the Cuthberts' wagon and offered to help carry their baskets of food to the long row of tables set up at the south end of the small park.

Seeing him, the tall boy dressed in a shirt starched strikingly white, an oat coloured lambswool sweater-vest hugging his lanky frame, a navy bowtie at his pale throat, his dark trousers severely pressed, boots shined, and hair slicked back under a straw boater, Anne knew she should be flattered he’d gone to such trouble for her. But all she could think was that Charlie looked like a boy playing pretend at being a man, especially when he offered her his arm to help her down from the wagon, standing ramrod straight with one hand behind his back while the other was held aloft for her to steady herself as she descended from the buggy.

Where were the butterflies her novels said would come when she took a boy’s hand at his offer of chivalry? Where was her flattery at his compliments to her dress and hat? Where was her pride at showing up to a town event with a possible suitor?

What Anne did feel was total mortification when Charlie bowed to Mathew and promised he’d look after the man’s spirited daughter for the afternoon, assuring the elder Cuthbert that there would be no impropriety and that his mother had instructed his younger sister to chaperone the pair. Anne wanted to crawl under the wagon and die as Mathew stuttered out a ‘that’s fine’ to Charlie’s magnanimous declaration. Instead, she hissed that it wasn’t necessary for his little sister to follow them since they weren’t courting, merely two friends attending a town social together. However, Charlie insisted it was only proper no matter how much Anne protested.

Once their baskets of food were laid out on the tables, Charlie asked Anne if she wanted to do a circle around the picnic grounds. Feeling she had no choice (she was supposed to be attending the day’s events with the boy after all) the pair started walking. Again, there were no thrills, or chills, or even the hint of a tickle. Walking side-by-side with Charlie yielded nothing of the euphoria Anne’s romance novels had led her to believe would happen (or even a spark of what she’d felt when she’d danced with Gilbert) further cementing her conviction that Charlie Sloane simply wasn’t the boy for her.

Besides being unable to inspire even the tiniest flutter in her heart, Charlie wasn’t at all a boy Anne could say she thought particularly handsome or odious. He certainly wasn’t the dashing knight or brooding poet her imagination had conjured when contemplating her romantic ideal, but where he may have lacked in magnetic looks she hoped he might make up for in dazzling charisma.

Once again, Anne was left sorely disappointed.

Charlie, it turned out, was not a terribly engaging conversationalist, droning in a monotonous tone about his family’s farm, seeming to linger disturbingly long on the merits of goat dung as a hearty fertilizer. He also bragged a great deal of his skill as a salesman, having taken up a weekend job at the general store, even though Anne knew perfectly well Charlie only unloaded crates and stocked shelves and hardly said more than a ‘good day’ to any customer. He never asked over Anne, wondered about her thoughts or tried to make her laugh, though he did compliment her family’s horse which was odd. Instead, he kept a steady drone as he talked about himself, only veering off topic to comment with a perplexed condescension at Anne’s near blasphemous worship of nature when she stopped to admire a young honeysuckle bush whose berries had just started to change colour. After barely an hour in his company, Anne had come to the conclusion that Charlie was horrifically boring and she couldn’t help but dread the rest of the day that seemed to loom ahead of her like a barren desert. Thankfully, an oasis saved Anne just as she was on the brink of snapping at Charlie to cease trying to hold her hand when they crossed paths with the Barry family.

For half-an-hour, Anne was granted a reprieve from Charlie as she chatted with Diana, communicating her distress to her bosom friend via scrunched brows and darting eyes even as her words expressed nothing but simple pleasantries. Catching on, Diana suggested that she walk with the pair to the lake for the fishing contest. So thankful she could have kissed Diana on the spot, Anne eagerly agreed, happy to send Charlie’s little sister off with Minnie May for the Maypole dancing, and looped her arm with Diana as the trio walked the half mile to the lake.

“Are you going to give it a go?” Diana asked as they neared the sign-up table.

“Ye—”

“Girls shouldn’t fish,” Charlie interrupted, stepping in front of Anne to sign his own name on the list. While he was bent over the table, Anne was very tempted to give the boy’s bottom a hard kick, but Charlie’s rear was saved by Diana who quickly steered Anne away.

“That wouldn’t be nice,” she whispered, knowing what her friend had been contemplating.

“But it would have been satisfying,” Anne grumbled.

“Buck up,” Diana encouraged. “You said yourself you were determined to have a good time today. And perhaps Charlie is a little…opinionated, but so is a certain titian beauty that I know very well.”

Anne chuckled at that and was nearly prepared to return to her original determination of enjoying the day, when she spotted Gilbert and Ruby setting up a spot to fish on the opposite side of the pond. Both were dressed in splendid spring ensembles, Ruby’s curls falling in perfect waves over her shoulders while Gilbert’s hair was freshly trimmed. They were wearing matching boutonnieres of pale violets and the small decoration was so gigantically significant in its message that Gilbert and Ruby were _together_ that Anne had to turn away, unsure if she was embarrassed, or angry, or envious, but whatever she was she could feel heat rising up from her throat to her brow.

“Anne?”

“I’m fine!” the redhead cried, spinning violently to pin Charlie with a hard look. He flinched a little at her harsh cry but managed not to fumble the rod and basket he was holding. “Let’s get set up,” she said, stomping along the shore until she found a spot where Gilbert and Ruby were neither in her direct line of sight nor her peripheral vision. She couldn’t bear to see them talking, or giggling, or worse, flirting.

At least she had the fishing competition to keep her mind occupied.

* * *

Gilbert was not enjoying himself.

He’d tried. That morning while Mary had given his hair a quick trim, he’d talked with his family about how he intended to show Ruby a fun time, just a pair of good chums enjoying a lovely picnic afternoon. And he’d been nearly convinced that he could pull it off (despite Bash’s taunting) until he met Ruby and her parents at the picnic grounds.

Specifically, when he met Mrs. Gillis.

The woman was certainly…frilly.

A round lady from head to foot, Ida Gillis had a personality as large as her bosom and she wore it openly on her face, every pinched expression, unpleasant sniff, and shrewd look delivering a clear message to whichever poor soul was on the receiving end of her attention. She’d come to the picnic dressed in a gown of navy stripes on ivory satin, and her hat had a feather so full and long the breeze kept blowing it across her face.

Gilbert approached the family with a calm demeanour, hand already extended and a smile on his face that soon dissolved into a mystified line when Mrs. Gillis met him halfway.

First she made him show his hands, her sharp green eyes appraising his fingernails for dirt before permitting Gilbert to shake her hand as well as the hands of each of her daughters. Then she ordered Ruby to pin a boutonniere of violets at Gilbert’s breast, commenting that it was only right that a boy and girl stepping out should match in some way (Gilbert noticed the same boutonniere adorned to Ruby’s dress and wondered how badly Bash would torment him if he turned tail and ran away right that second). Then Mrs. Gillis instructed Gilbert to help Mr. Gillis unload the family wagon, giving specific orders as to where the picnic blanket should be placed, the chairs, the toys, and the baskets of food, and the woman wasn’t shy about telling Gilbert when he was not doing something exactly as she’d commanded. She was so strict, in fact, that when he noticed his boots had left a small smudge of dirt on the corner of the picnic blanket he had no doubt she would take a switch to his backside before God and all of Avonlea, so he craftily laid the basket that held the family’s china tea set over the blotch and hoped Mrs. Gillis wouldn’t notice until after he had left her company.

Finally, when it was appropriate for Gilbert and Ruby to leave, Mrs. Gillis began fussing with the ribbon in Ruby’s hair for several minutes, a simple action that disguised her true motivation: interrogation.

Mrs. Gillis asked over Gilbert’s farm, the orchard’s business partnership with the Barrys and the projected success of their harvest. She asked over his family (she’d actually said his farmhand and housekeeper and Gilbert had firmly corrected her misinterpretation, remaining steadfast even as the woman frowned at him when he claimed the Lacroixs as kin), and even made a kind remark about his late father. She then wanted to know how Gilbert was doing in school, what he was considering for college, and what research he’d done with respect to his lofty vocation. And though she ‘hmm-ed’ and smiled too sweetly when Gilbert confessed to still be exploring his college options, Mrs. Gillis finally released Ruby to Gilbert’s company with a saccharine warning that they were to stay within her sight.

“Mama’s just protective,” Ruby excused, looping her arm in Gilbert’s as they left the Gillis family behind to explore the picnic grounds.

They paused and chatted with different neighbours along the way, discussing the usual polite subjects of the weather, and the food, and the day’s events. Gilbert made sure to stop at Bash and Mary’s little corner, properly introducing Ruby to the pair, the girl displaying none of her mother’s prejudice as she chatted amiably with Mary, telling the woman of how much Anne bragged about her cooking and wondering if she might be able to borrow Mary’s recipe for fish chowder.

“And how far along are you, Mrs. Lacroix?” Ruby asked, eyeing Mary’s bulging stomach with wonder.

“Almost at the end,” Mary replied.

“Doc here thinks thirty-five weeks,” Bash said, shooting Gilbert a playful wink as he brought a plate of finger sandwiches to his wife. “Only about four to go before we meet our new addition.”

“That’s so exciting!” Ruby gushed, giving the pair a genuine smile before she and Gilbert continued their walk. “What a lovely couple,” she said sincerely. “I’m sorry I never spoke to them before. Anne’s always telling me I should, and now I’m so glad I did. You’re really lucky, Gilbert.”

“Thank you,” Gilbert said, shy to receive Ruby’s compliment, especially when he didn’t feel flattered by it when he knew he ought to. The awkwardness was made all the worse when he spotted Anne and Charlie, the pair taking their own turn around the picnic grounds.

Their backs were to Gilbert, but the eighteen-year old would know that red hair anywhere. While he couldn’t see their faces, they were standing close, and Charlie was trying to take Anne’s hand. Seeing the gesture made Gilbert’s heart lurch, and while he thought he should feel satisfied that Anne was very much avoiding the contact, all Gilbert felt was vexed that he wasn’t the one at her side.

“Did you want to sign-up for the fishing contest?” he asked Ruby, needing to get away.

“Oh! Well, I can watch you,” she suggested as Gilbert steered them down the path that led to the lake.

“You should fish with me,” Gilbert insisted. “Two rods are better than one.”

Gilbert chuckled at his lame joke, waiting for Ruby to either join him, or chide him playfully for making such an absurd pun. The blond did neither. She just gave Gilbert a thin-lipped smile that was more nervous than merry and let him lead the way to the lake. And even as he tried to reassure her that she’d have fun, it was soon very apparent that fun was not something the pair would find that afternoon.

* * *

The fishing competition was horrible.

Besides the fact that Charlie decided to lecture Anne on the finer points of angling (even though Anne had to bait his hook after he’d failed several times at securing the worm), Diana disappeared at some point and wasn’t anywhere to be found near the lake, leaving Anne alone to listen as Charlie told her about going ice fishing with his father and uncles a few winters ago. The tale was dull and by the time it was done Anne was sure she knew more than enough about augers and shanties to last a lifetime.

Then there was the strop Charlie sank into when Moody won the competition, having reeled in a trout weighing four pounds, and Anne’s own funk was exasperated when Ruby rushed at Moody (only just stopping before she would have leaped into his arms) to congratulate him on his catch. Moody was chuffed to receive Ruby’s praise, bashfully congratulating her on her own catch. For a moment, Anne looked over at Gilbert, who had been following Ruby at a much slower pace, and their eyes locked.

The golden flecks that always danced so merrily within Gilbert’s eyes, like the bees in his hives that would fly about and pollinate his orchard, were dim. But that could be due to loosing to Moody as well, not just the fishing contest but Ruby’s affection, as the blond was beaming at the other boy. And that thought, that Gilbert was jealous over Ruby, set Anne’s head in such a wretched spin that she literally ran away from the lake, not even stopping when Charlie called after her.

When he did catch up, cloyingly coddling as he insisted on asking over and over what was wrong, Anne made up an excuse of feeling overheated, the frail explanation appeasing her fretting escort. He instructed Anne to remove herself to the shade, setting her up in a cool spot near the little round bandstand where local musicians had collected to play favourite tunes that picnickers were content to clap and sway along with. It would have been an ideal moment in the day if not for a breeze sweeping Anne’s hat off her head and Charlie, in his fumbling enthusiasm to impress her, took chase of the boater only to accidentally step on it. His heavy boots crushed the straw and muddied the ribbon, the hat completely ruined. Charlie looked dejected when he presented Anne with her spoiled hat, even offering his in replacement. Anne asked Charlie to bring her a cold tea instead, something he was glad to oblige.

Finally free to breathe, Anne closed her eyes and tried to will her brain to erase the image of Gilbert and Ruby that would not leave her.

The pair just looked so well suited, both blessed with vibrant sun-kissed skin, and thick curly hair, and such pleasant features. It didn’t escape Anne’s notice that Gilbert had been happy to let Ruby fish with him, clearly having no qualms about what girls should and shouldn’t do. Perhaps he had been so impressed when she boldly asked him to the picnic that his feelings had changed since that cool afternoon in March when Anne had asked him about posting a notice for the sweet blond. The thought was so dreadful to Anne that she shoved it from her mind violently, determined not to cry even as a little voice inside her head (which sounded so much like Diana) insisted that Gilbert had wanted to post about _Anne_. He wanted to notice her, if she’d give him the chance, and surely he must have felt the sparks that tickled between them at each dance practice.

They got on well as chums, certainly, but what if there was something more? Something past friendship?

Did she want to know what that was?

Did he?

Or had she really only imagined everything? What if every look, every smile, every fluttering heartbeat and bated breath, every gentle touch and touching gesture, his consideration, his support, his _romantic eyes_ , what if all of it was just something Anne had made up? Her imagination was certainly vivid enough. Perhaps it was better that Gilbert was escorting Ruby and Anne was with Charlie. Perhaps Anne and Gilbert were better off as best friends and nothing else.

Perhaps if she told herself that enough times, she might believe it.

Frustrated, Anne started people watching, desperate for a distraction from her muddled thoughts and raucous feelings. As she searched the crowd, her sharp silver eyes caught sight of Diana. The dark-haired girl was slinking through the crowd, keeping close to the town hall’s west facing wall and edging little by little to one side until she eventually disappeared around the back of the red brick building. Curious, Anne went to take chase, but when her arm flung out as she started her run, she struck Charlie, the poor boy having returned with the iced tea.

“Anne! I’m sorry!” Charlie groaned again, looking truly disheartened by the gaffe.

“It’s alright,” Anne grumbled, Diana long gone from her sight and now the cuff of her borrowed dress was wet and stained with the sweet berry tea. “I have to get Marilla to help me,” she said.

“I can go—”

“No! Just stay here, Charlie. Please. I’ll come find you.”

And with that desperate plea which the boy mercifully complied with, Anne dashed away for her mother, trying to squeeze what she could of the stain out of the fabric until she came up to Marilla and Mathew and nearly burst into furious tears as she showed them the cuff.

“Today is a disaster!” Anne lamented as Marilla worked diligently to dab the tea stain away with vinegar. It was a painfully slow process, but it was working, so Anne sat as still as she could manage and endured it. Besides, the more time it took to get the stain clean, the less time she’d have to endure in Charlie’s company.

“A little spilled tea hardly qualifies as a disaster,” Marilla chided. “Besides, I’m sure Charlie didn’t mean to do this on purpose.”

“He never means to do anything on purpose, including ruining my hat,” Anne reported, noting how Marilla at least huffed over the fact they’d have to purchase Anne a new boater. “He just…lets the world happen around him and barely bothers to look as it all passes him by.”

“Why did you accept Charlie’s invitation?” Mathew asked quietly, startling Anne who’d thought the man asleep as he was comfortably reclined on their picnic blanket and had his own hat resting over his face.

“I guess because...well, Charlie may be dull and a bit pompous, but who else would I have come with?”

“Could have come with Diana. You always have before,” Mathew suggested.

“Except she keeps disappearing,” Anne grumbled.

“Funny, so does Jerry. His mother just came by asking if we’d seen him. Said he’s been sneaking around all afternoon,” Marilla mentioned conversationally.

“What am I going to do about Charlie?” Anne asked, seeking comfort and guidance from her family. Not surprisingly, Mathew pretended to be asleep to avoid the conversation, but Marilla could be counted on to offer some no-nonsense wisdom.

“If you truly don’t care for Charlie outside the bonds of friendship, I think you need to make sure he knows it. That boy seems to have his head turned by you.”

“I’m not certain how deep Charlie’s affection runs, but I’m sure it can’t be so fathomless. I’m ill-tempered, and too opinionated - too _passionate -_ for the likes of him, if you’ll recall. Not to mention I have this awful red hair. How could he be smitten with such a wretch?”

“I thought you said he liked you.”

“He told me that, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure he means it. Marilla, how do you know when a boy likes you?”

“Anne, really! We’re surrounded by half the town,” Marilla chided.

“Well, how will I know if I like a boy?” the sixteen-year old insisted, undeterred by Marilla’s stern frown.

“Anne, in all my years, believe me when I tell you that you can only know something when you know it, and not a moment before. When you have those…feelings for a boy, you’ll just know.”

“Are you sure?” Anne asked, gaze having caught sight of Gilbert and Ruby who were walking arm-and-arm towards the dessert table, her heart giving a painful little thump when she noticed Gilbert take a bite of one of her tarts.

“Yes,” Marilla answered, shrewd as ever as she finished dabbing the tea stain away, her keen clear eyes observing her daughter casting a faraway expression to the boy next door. “And if all works as it should, you’ll both know at the same time.”

* * *

Ruby, it turned out, was positively squeamish when it came to all things wriggly and slimy.

She cried when she had to pull out a worm from their bait cup and then tried to hook the bait with her eyes closed and nearly sliced her thumb open for it. Her cast was decent at least, although that was because Ruby wanted the worm as far away from her as possible.

For the hour that they stood by the shore and fished, Gilbert and Ruby had very little to say to one another. There was no joking, or banter, or whistling. It was just an uneasy stillness that seemed to last an age, only broken with Ruby’s intermittent commentary on what she observed of the other fishers, and even then her scrutiny seemed to linger most on Moody, the boy managing to crop up in Ruby’s chatter constantly.

“Oh dear, it looks like Moody’s come stag to the picnic. That’s a shame…

“Has Moody always had that red kerchief...

“Oh! Did you see how far Moody cast his line? He must be very strong…

“Did you hear that Moody’s playing in the band at the dance this evening...

“Why wouldn’t anyone come with Moody? He’s a nice boy…”

There was a short heartbeat of excitement when Ruby managed to reel in a fish, which resulted in her ruining the moment when the trout began flopping in the grass, leaving Gilbert to unhook the catch and toss it in their basket for the judges to measure and weigh. Only the announcement of Moody’s victory brought Ruby out of her hiding place in the tall grass, the young girl eager to praise her schoolmate. She rushed to Moody and started talking animatedly, looking as if she was truly enjoying herself for the first time all day. Gilbert was glad that at least one of them was having a nice time.

As Gilbert approached the chatting duo, he made eye-contact with Anne who was also watching the pair converse.

For a wonderful, horrible suspended second, Anne looked at Gilbert and he looked back. There was a pale essence about her that had Gilbert feeling incredibly sad, like looking at a vase of wilting flowers. He wondered if Anne was so melancholy because she hadn’t participated in the contest (which was odd, since she was a good fisher), or if it was for another reason. He wanted to ask if she was having a pleasant time, to souse if she was enjoying the day with Charlie, but before he could, Anne turned away and ran from the lake, Charlie clumsily following behind her.

“—can’t wait to hear you play later,” Ruby was saying, still focused on Moody and completely unaware of the strange drama that had happened only inches away.

“I’ll wave to you from the stage,” Moody offered, the minister's son also clueless to anything happening around him that wasn’t Ruby Gillis. “Only if you want me to, though!”

“I want you to,” Ruby assured. “I’d like it.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

The tension between the two was thick and Gilbert finally awkwardly cleared his throat, announcing he was going to turn their rods in before asking if Ruby wanted to make her way back to the picnic grounds for dinner. Blustering, the blond bid Moody goodbye and followed Gilbert, this time not looping her arm in his, but instead keeping a steady pace at his side as they perused the potluck table. After filling their plates with the best delicacies of Avonlea’s matrons, they sat with the Gillis family to enjoy their dinner, Mrs. Gillis making her displeasure at learning Ruby had been fishing no secret.

In fact, Mrs. Gillis was constant in her list of grievances, remarking on the too hot sun, and the lack of scones, and the uncoordinated music from the band, and the clamour being made by the Baynard family’s brood. It was a relief to get a respite from the woman when Bash approached the group and asked to speak with Gilbert.

“Is everything alright?” Gilbert asked, noting the concern shadowing his brother’s eyes.

“Mary’s tired,” Bash answered.

“Just tired?”

“No. She says the baby’s jumping like a rabbit and giving her cramps. Makes sitting uncomfortable.”

“Cramps? Bash, what if they’re contractions?” Gilbert exclaimed.

“Mary says they’re not. And seeing she’s the only one of us with any birthing experience – Trinidad does not count! – I’m taking her word for it and taking her home to bed.”

“I should go –”

“And she wants you to stay here,” Bash instructed. “She says to not worry your fool head and have fun.”

“It’s going to be hard having fun when I know she’s not well,” Gilbert grumbled.

“Consider it practice for when you’re a doctor, Blythe. Can’t be all gloomy and serious when one of your patients is doing poorly. You still got to live,” Bash said. He patted Gilbert on the shoulder and Gilbert gave his brother’s hand a firm squeeze.

“You will come for me if things take a turn,” Gilbert requested. Bash nodded and started back for his wife. “And make Mary some ginger tea when you get home!”

“Good day to you, Blythe!” Bash called back, and Gilbert smiled, some of his worry ebbing, but he supposed until the new Lacroix was safe and swaddled in its parents’ arms he’d never really shake the apprehension.

Gilbert returned to finish his dinner with the Gillis family and then it was off into town hall where the dancing was set to begin. As they waited for the band to prepare, Gilbert chatted amiably with the Cuthberts, noting that Mathew was fully recovered from his long cold. They spoke of the sowing season, and their yearlings, and very briefly they spoke of Anne, only bringing her up when the subject of the college prep classes were mentioned (they wanted to know if Gilbert found the coursework as challenging as their daughter did). As they spoke, Gilbert caught sight of Anne out of the corner of his eye, watching as she and Charlie took their place on the dancefloor, joined by Tillie, one of the Pauls, Jerry Baynard, and Diana to make up their set of six for the Dashing White Sergeant.

“You should be getting yourself and Miss Ruby out there, right?” Mathew checked, and Gilbert agreed. When he looked over his shoulder for Ruby, he found the girl staring at the stage with a dreamy expression. He wasn’t at all surprised to see she was watching Moody, her blue eyes following the the boy’s every move with keen interest. “Ruby?” he asked, the girl squeaking as she was startled from her musings. “Did you want to dance?”

“Oh! Yes! Of course I do.”

The Dashing White Sergeant went well, as did the two-step and a few polkas. Gilbert and Ruby danced for most of them, goofing on some of the steps but managing to laugh it off. They were having fun, truly, but it did not escape Gilbert’s notice that Ruby’s focus continued to drift towards the band, just as he couldn’t help his own eyes from shifting across the dance floor to follow the trail of red curls weaving in and out of the crowd.

He wondered if Anne was having fun. Did she truly enjoy Charlie’s company? Was she flattered by his notice? Would they start courting after today?

The questions were constant, buzzing about inside his mind furiously with each step he took. It was driving him to distraction, picturing Anne laughing with Charlie, smiling at him, letting him hold her hand, or pet her hair, or kiss her lips. He couldn’t bear the thought, had to shake his head to dispel the visions his jealous imagination conjured, and then he looked at Ruby who was sighing sweetly as Moody waved at her, just as he’d promised, and Gilbert knew it was time to cease this outing and set things aright.

As he and Ruby left the dancefloor to stand aside while most of the adults began a schottische, Gilbert took a deep breath and ventured forward to do what he should have done much earlier in the day.

“Ruby?” he asked, committed to finally addressing the elephant in the room. “Why did you ask me to escort you today?”

“Because I…oh! Gilbert! It’s not polite to just ask a girl such things,” Ruby protested as her cheeks turned as pink as her dress.

“Is it because you like me?” he asked, knowing he had to be blunt if he had any hope of reaching the girl’s common sense.

“Like you? Gilbert I…all my life I’ve liked you. Being your sweetheart has been my greatest wish since I was little.”

“Wishes change, though,” Gilbert reasoned. “Remember when you wished you could be a starfish when you grew up?”

“I was five!” Ruby countered, crossing her arms and sniffing.

“And now you’re fifteen. Are you saying wishes you had ten, five, or one year ago are still the same ones you have today?” Gilbert reasoned, his eyes lifting from Ruby to look up at the stage where Moody was happily strumming on his banjo. Ruby followed Gilbert’s gaze, the light in her blue eyes changing the moment they landed on Moody. Gilbert was certain he heard Ruby let out a little sigh and knew that she was ready to listen to what he had to say. “Ruby, you’re very sweet, and kind, and any fella would be a king among men to call you his gal.”

“You think so?” Ruby asked, focus completely concentrated on Moody, the look of a lovesick puppy softening her features.

“Yes,” Gilbert replied. “But don’t you…don’t you think that maybe, the wish you once had for me has changed? That you might have a new wish? A different sweetheart?”

“But I…for so long it’s been you,” Ruby confessed, turning away from Moody to pin Gilbert with large blue eyes that were flashing with confusion.

“It’s alright if it’s not me anymore,” Gilbert assured. Then, with deliberate slowness, he unpinned the violets from his waistcoat, keeping his hazel eyes trained on Ruby for any sign of tears. But the blond didn’t cry, or protest, or even gasp in surprise at the gesture that was both a release and a rejection. “You should always follow your heart, Ruby. Don’t waste time chasing an old wish you’ve moved on from.”

He placed the boutonniere in her palm, curling her fingers over the flowers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever move on from you,” Ruby confessed, sounding a bit warbly as she finally admitted the truth, but no tears fell from her eyes. “I never expected those feelings to change, or for different ones to come. You don’t think I’m silly, or fickle, do you?”

“I think you should go see if Moody likes violets,” Gilbert said, giving the girl a sincere smile of encouragement, even chuckling when she let out a shrill peep before running off to the side of the stage so she could jump and wave to get Moody’s attention. Letting out a massive sigh of relief, Gilbert decided to set himself up beside the punchbowl for a while, telling himself it was because he was thirsty and not because that side of the room had the best vantage point for watching the dancers glide across the floor; dancers like Anne, who was so easy to spot thanks to her beautiful red hair.

And as he watched as Charlie started leading the redhead into a quadrille, Gilbert couldn’t help but silently berate himself for not taking his own advice and following his heart, especially when it might already be too late.

* * *

Dancing with Charlie wasn’t the absolute worst.

Anne was sure that dancing with an ostrich, or a tortoise, or even Billy Andrews had to be monumentally worse than taking turns and reels across the floor with Charlie Sloane. He’d only managed to step on her toes half a dozen times, and at least he apologized for each pinch. He was also much better at keeping the beat than he had been their first few dance practices, so truly, it wasn’t terrible.

Still, even as she shared mediocre dance after mediocre dance with the boy, Anne couldn’t help her mind from wandering.

First she tried to deduce where Diana had been disappearing all day, making a game out of observing her friend and trying to find clues as if she was a ginger Sherlock Holmes. She wasn’t able to deduce much, save that Diana’s hair looked as if she’d changed the style since earlier in the afternoon (hadn’t she had part of her hair down rather than all of it pulled back and secured with a bow at the base of her neck?), and that there were blades of grass on the back hem of her dress, as if she’d been lying on the ground, but Diana would never do such a thing. 

Then there was the mystery of Jerry’s impressive dancing skills, the young farmhand able to keep perfect step with the rest of Avonlea’s youth. It was startling to say the least, especially since Anne was unaware of Jerry ever being invited to a practice or even having any interest in learning.

And then there was Gilbert and Ruby.

Anne tried not to look for them, but her eyes continued to compulsively search the bobbing heads of those in the hall, seeking that familiar bush of dark curls. It was horrible, since Anne felt a quick second of relief upon spotting Gilbert, only to immediately feel uncomfortable when she’d catch sight of Ruby as well. She didn’t linger long on them, terrified to see them happy. She tried to put the iron in her blood, to truly become unfeeling over the whole thing, and she was sure she would have succeeded had it not been for one moment when a single flash of blond and pink dashing towards the stage caught her attention.

“Oh no…” Anne said under her breath.

“What?” Charlie wondered.

“It looks like Ruby has thrown over Gilbert for Moody,” she said, grey eyes darting between her blond girlfriend who was giggling merrily as Moody tried to show her how to play a cord on the banjo - a familiar boutonniere of violets pinned to his waistcoat - while Gilbert was stood alone by the punchbowl.

“That is a shame, but it serves Gilbert right for not staking his claim over Ruby before Moody was able to swoop in. Girls do love a lad who can play an instrument,” Charlie commented, speaking with that affected authority he’d been hoping would impress her all day, but never noticing that it only made Anne irate.

Anne wanted to talk to Gilbert (to check he was alright, but also to snoop if he was nursing a broken heart), but she was just about to begin another dance with Charlie, so she decided she’d find Gilbert after. Whether he was upset or not, whether Anne liked him or not, Gilbert was still her best friend and best friends looked after one another.

And Anne kept looking after Gilbert, even as Charlie led her stiltedly through the quadrille, her face turned away from her partner and the others in their rectangle as she strived to keep the curly haired boy in her sight. She couldn’t tell if he looked sad. He just looked serious, as he so often did, and when he raised his head and caught Anne staring at him, the redhead couldn’t tell the thoughts that might be flitting through the young man’s mind. It was strange not being able to read Gilbert with just a single look, especially when she’d been so easily able to before, but perhaps it had been because things were simpler between them before.

Before notices, and dance practices, and questions, and picnics. Before sixteen, and Hester’s Garden, and the confusing feelings that had taken root so deep within Anne’s heart there was no hope of removing them.

She was smitten with Gilbert Blythe.

There was no use in denying it, not when her heart was hammering just from a single look from the sad handsome boy. When Gilbert looked at Anne, she felt so many things at once it was difficult to put the sensation into words, but ‘singular’, and ‘cherished’, and ‘hot’ were close. It was more than what she’d felt with Charlie all day, and Anne knew it would be necessary to gently let her dance partner down once the evening was through. Still, Anne was certain Charlie wasn’t overly invested in her, so she didn’t believe she’d cause him long-lasting heartache. As for what she would do with her own muddled feelings for Gilbert…well, until she decided, there was certainly something romantical in an unrequited love, and perhaps that could give her comfort as she sorted herself out.

“We’ll have to learn how to waltz,” Charlie commented, face blotchy and smile too self-satisfied as he took Anne’s hands and led her into a round. “That’s always the first dance between the bride and groom.”

“So why would we need to learn it?” Anne wondered, still seeking Gilbert as she spun.

“Unless you’d rather another dance at the wedding. Just not a polka. Mother says that’s tactless.”

“What wedding?” Anne asked, snapping her head towards Charlie, her nerves on edge as she waited with horrified irritation for him to answer.

“Ours.”

Anne stopped, causing Charlie to trip.

“What? But I…Charlie I…you can’t…and why would…how…” Anne stumbled over her words, her brain moving both too fast and too slow for her to comprehend the conversation. She wasn’t even aware that her still frame had disrupted the other dancers, most throwing her narrowed glowers as they were forced to spin around her and her bemused partner. “Why do you think we’re getting married?” she finally managed to ask.

“Because you came to the picnic with me,” he replied slowly.

“Charlie…do you think my accepting your invitation here means I’d accept your hand?” Anne asked just as slowly.

“Of course,” Charlie replied grandly. “Wasn’t my notice clear?”

“It _was_ a proposal?!” Anne cried, her shrill scream overpowering the music so that the musicians ceased their playing and all eyes in the room turned to the redhead whose face was going maroon with mortification.

“Well, it was a notice that I intend to propose. Someday. Once I’m finished college.”

“ _You’re_ finished college?” Anne echoed, dumbfounded, for it was clear that Charlie’s scholastic ambitions did not extend in consideration to her own. She had to set him straight. “Charlie, no.”

“Well, you can’t expect us to marry before I graduate. How else would I be able to provide for you if I don’t have my degree?”

“Simple. You won’t provide for me at all.”

“Be reasonable, Anne. It’s the man’s duty to afford his wife a comfortable home for her to raise the children.”

“No!” Anne screamed.

“No?”

“Exactly! No. We are not getting married. Ever.”

“You’re overexciting yourself again,” the boy said with confident condescension. “Perhaps we should go sit, to help calm your nerves.”

“My nerves are fine –”

“Anne, you’re raising your voice,” Charlie whispered, his eyes darting about, noticing the attention Anne was attracting, the judgemental stares of the village bearing down on him, the poor lad having to tug on his bowtie which seemed tighter than it had a moment ago.

“—and I certainly don’t need you to regulate my emotions! I can handle them perfectly well on my own.”

“But we talked about this befo—”

“You talked – and had it all completely wrong by the way – but now it’s your turn to listen. Charlie Sloane, I will never be some domicile woman who will fetch your slippers, or raise your brood of offspring, and never have an original thought of my own once I say ‘I do’. That is not who I am and when you said you liked me I assumed you knew that.”

“You’re just so enthusiastic because you’re young –”

“I’m five weeks older than you!” Anne argued, enflamed.

“But girls have such a tumultuous emotional constitution that they naturally mature more slowly than boys.”

“I’ve heard enough!” Anne cried, stepping back from Charlie and pinning him with an angry, righteous stare. “From the moment this day has started your manners, attempts at impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, have built so immovable a dislike in me that you, Charlie, are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to dance with, let alone marry!”

And with that shattering rejection, Anne turned on her heel and stomped out of the hall, knowing she was being watched, and judged, and laughed at, and pitied, but she was far to infuriated to care. The doubt and self-consciousness would come later, once she’d left the hall, marched through the park, and reached the safety of the empty bandstand, her boots clapping on the weathered wood as she paced the platform and tried to sort out her inflamed feelings.

She could not believe Charlie had the gall to assume she would marry him! How could the boy be so presumptuous?! He behaved as if she should be grateful for his favour, like he had saved her from some dark, dank bog of loathsome spinsterhood when she was hardly a girl in the first blush of womanhood! The nerve!

Anne finally stopped her pacing and simply looked up at the moon, her soul screaming for relief from the humiliation. It wasn’t bad enough Charlie had ruined the day, but he’d made her feel so small and pathetic that there had been a brief but glorious rush of satisfaction when she’d dressed him down. She hated feeling weak and even more than that, she hated the pity that came with such perception. It frazzled Anne torturously to think that the people of Avonlea would now look upon her with consolation, the tempestuous redheaded orphan having thrown away her chance at a comfortable future. Her outcry would be the high gossip of town for weeks, and it would certainly ward off any other boys foolish enough to consider courting her.

But what did that matter, when there was only one she really wanted to court? And what did _that_ matter since he didn’t want her?

Anne didn’t know how long she stayed under the bandstand staring at the starry sky. She only knew that when she felt a familiar palm cup her elbow, long fingers folding over the bony joint to give it a firm and assuring squeeze, she was a bit terrified.

“Come to gloat?” she asked, keeping her grey gaze trained on the sky, knowing her heart would shatter into dust if she looked at his face and saw mockery.

“Quite the opposite,” Gilbert said, moving so that he was now in Anne’s line of sight, determined that she see his sincerity. “I came to congratulate you. That was…S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R.”

His genuineness almost calmed Anne’s nerves. She even smiled, a small, warbling little thing, before her fears resurfaced and she couldn’t help from giving them voice.

“Because I made a fool of myself. Again.”

“Because you put Charlie in his place. Again,” Gilbert corrected. “Lizzy Bennet would be proud.”

Anne wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, or scream, or cry, so she did a combination of all three, her lower lip trembling as she tried to rein in the paltry little whimper that expelled from her quaking mouth.

“Hey, Carrots,” Gilbert whispered, hand trailing down her arm from elbow, to wrist, to fingers, where he squeezed the digits gently in his own. “You don’t want to go back, eh?” Anne shook her head, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her free palm. “So let’s leave. I talked to Mr. and Ms. Cuthbert and said I’d walk you home if you wanted.”

When he started to lead the way, hand still in hers, Anne didn’t resist. She let Gilbert help her down the steps of the bandstand and trusted him to take her along the path and through the black fields to Green Gables. They didn’t have a lantern, the stars and moon and waning line of white daylight on the horizon all the illumination they had. It was strange, walking in the dark together, holding hands as amiably as if they hadn’t squabbled so churlishly three days ago.

“I’m sorry about Ruby,” Anne said suddenly, heartbeat speeding when Gilbert squeezed her hand, as if she’d surprised him. “Actually, I’m confused,” she added, not daring to look at Gilbert as she realized she was probably about to ask a question and receive an answer she would likely regret. “It’s just, you said – or at least, I thought you said; you never did _say_ – that you weren’t interested in pursuing that sort of relationship with her when I asked you about the Take Notice Board. And then you were accepting her invitation to the picnic and dance. And then I see her with Moody and you alone at the punchbowl. I just…I don’t understand and I’m…” Anne didn’t finish her thought, refusing to say aloud that she was hurt by the whole sorry business.

“I wanted to go with you,” Gilbert said after a beat of silence, his confession so soft and sincere that Anne stopped walking, making Gilbert halt his steps as well.

He was two paces ahead of her, looking at the path before them, his hand still tight in hers, holding on with a desperation that was at odds with his reluctance to turn and face her. She wanted to call his name, demand an explanation, confess she’d wanted to go to the picnic with him as well, but instead, Anne stayed silent. She waited for Gilbert to collect his courage, the boy finally turning so that he was looking at Anne and showing her the truth of his words in his naked expression.

“I wanted to ask you,” he began, forcing the words out, feeling brave even as he felt so vulnerable looking at her under the moonlight and holding her hand. “I tried. For weeks! It never worked. I thought I’d have to wait until the last possible moment, but then Ruby asked me in front of everyone. It would have been cruel to turn her down.”

“You accepted her out of gallantry,” Anne realized, the tension she hadn’t been aware that was cramping at the base of her neck at last releasing with the revelation of Gilbert’s feelings, or rather his non-feelings, for her blond friend. “So you don’t –”

“No,” Gilbert replied quickly, squeezing Anne’s hand again, hoping she’d understand what the gesture meant. “Never.”

Anne wanted to laugh with relief, but knew that wouldn’t be kind, so she settled for offering a crooked smile she wasn’t sure Gilbert could see in the dark.

“So I take it you’re not in the throes of devastating heartbreak that she jilted you for Moody?” Anne wondered, trying for levity, seeking the familiar teasing fellowship that was as much a stitch in their friendship as the current of tension that attracted them to the other.

“About as much as you’re melancholy over Charlie,” Gilbert quipped back, and Anne couldn’t help snorting at the jape. “I told Ruby to follow her heart.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Anne sighed, feeling the truth of her words as she relaxed completely while walking hand-in-hand with Gilbert. Their boots crunched together on the path to Green Gables, a strange, calming melody that soothed the pair. With their steps in sync and the world feeling as if it was finally sitting right again, Anne managed to give life to the words that had been eating at her since Friday afternoon. “I’m sorry. About Friday. I said things…I didn’t mean them.”

“I said things I didn’t mean, too,” Gilbert replied. “I never…Anne, we quarrel, sometimes heartily, and that’s just us. Honestly, when we’re elbows deep in a good debate it’s actually one of my favourite parts of being your friend. But then there’s other times when we’re really arguing, and I lose my patience –”

“—and I lose my temper,” Anne interrupted, making Gilbert chuckle a little, the small sound having Anne’s heart soar. She so loved when Gilbert was happy.

“Anne…what I said Friday, it was unkind. I was being spiteful, and I’m not proud of it. I think I must have hurt you and I…I _never_ want to do that. I’d never _mean_ to do that. I’m really sorry.”

“Gilbert, I know that,” Anne almost whispered, moved by his sincerity. “It’s the same for me.”

“So we’re alright?” he checked.

Feeling lighthearted, Anne sidled closer to Gilbert and bumped their shoulders together.

“We’re alright. We’ll always be alright.”

The knowledge was as soothing as the cool touch of aloe cream on a stinging sunburn. She felt Gilbert sigh, his relief echoing in her, and the pair contently continued their walk together along the dark Birch Path.

“Gil?” Anne said, her voice calm even as she steeled her nerve to say her next words with confidence. “The next time there’s a dance, ask me.”

Her request must have surprised him, for his hand flexed in hers, fingers squeezing around her own almost as if to assure himself that she was truly beside him. It made her smile.

“How can I be sure you’ll say yes?” he asked, hesitant, that heartbreaking vulnerability back in his voice, but there was hope, too, and Anne was sure if she looked over at him she’d see his eyes were sparkling with it.

“You won’t until you ask,” she replied, hoping he understood she was teasing; that she’d say ‘yes’ to him. Only to him.

When he squeezed her hand and let out a short chuckle, she thought he knew.

The pair walked the rest of the way to Green Gables in mostly silence, holding hands the entire time, enjoying the cool night air and beauty of the moon and stars. All too soon, they came upon the red dirt drive that led to Anne’s home. When they approached the closed gate, Anne slapped Gilbert’s hand away when he moved as if to open it, instead climbing over the rails with a practiced flourish that she remarked Charlie would be scandalized over.

“Because girls shouldn’t climb gates, or fish, or play football, or do anything fun,” the sixteen-year old huffed. “I suppose that’s why he worries I’ll be a spinster forever. Who would ever want a girl who plays like a boy?” The question was rhetorical, but it still stung a little when Gilbert didn’t rush to assure Anne that she was wrong. “Goodnight,” she said, turning away from the gate and walking towards her farmhouse.

“Anne?” Gilbert called, and the redhead turned back immediately, stepping up to the gate, her grey eyes as large and limpid as the moon. They gave Gilbert’s heart the daring he needed to press forward. “There’s the county fair next month. There’s always a dance in the evening. Will you go with me?”

Feeling her pulse race and her face flush, Anne wasn’t quite able to speak, so she smiled and nodded her head ferociously, ensuring Gilbert couldn’t misconstrue her reply. His returning smile was so boyishly charming that Anne couldn’t help but wonder what those lips would feel like pressed intimately against her own.

And then she realized, if she wanted to find out, what was there to stop her?

After all, it was just like Ruby said: use your own voice, your own heart, and be a twentieth century woman.

“Gilbert?” Anne said, the young man having slightly moved away as if to begin walking back towards his orchard. Like every other time she’d called out to him, Gilbert stopped instantly and turned to her, hazel eyes trained on her with curiosity as he watched Anne heft herself on the lower rail of the fence so that her torso leaned over the top.

With firm hands, Anne gripped Gilbert’s shoulders and pulled him closer, stopping him when she had him stood where she wanted. His dark curls were awash with moonshine and his eyes seemed to have captured the very hearts of the twinkling stars. With a hand far steadier than she could have imagined, Anne’s fingers finally traced the strong jaw she’d been silently admiring for months, her fingertips ghosting over the smooth suntanned skin. She felt Gilbert swallow, but he did not move away from her exploring touch. The tickle was back and flitting all across her body. It wasn’t so fierce as it had been when she’d danced with Gilbert, but it was persistent, and urging, until Anne gave in at last and leaned down just as Gilbert leaned up, their lips meeting in the middle in a first kiss baptized by the moon and stars.

Anne moved her hand to properly cup Gilbert’s cheek, the boy leaning gladly into her touch, the way he shifted his head changing the pressure of his mouth on hers, and Anne sighed.

Kissing Gilbert was every romantic imagining she’d ever had. His lips were made for kissing her, so lush and warm and fitting so snugly against her own puckered mouth. There was no worry or question on if the action was right, because it was Anne and Gilbert and there was nothing more right in the world. Even when they parted, just for a moment, just a few inches to catch their breath, the two were drawn back together.

Anne was now cupping Gilbert’s face completely, her palms cool against his flushed cheeks, her thumbs tracing circles on the sensitive skin by his ears. Gilbert moved too, one hand reaching out to cup Anne’s elbow, keeping her steady as she leaned far over the top of the gate, while the other went straight for her long red hair. His fingers started at the base of her neck, working up until they were lost in the titian sea of the hair he loved so much, the exploring digits loosening the bobby pins that had kept the tresses so neatly arranged. When Anne moaned as Gilbert pressed closer, the sound of her wanton sigh caused his heart to speed so fast he was certain she could hear it, and when Anne’s clever little tongue moved against his upper lip (an innocent reflex on Anne’s part - at least the first time, perhaps not so much the second or third time she did it) Gilbert knew the kiss had to end before he pulled Anne over the gate and carried her off into the night.

Gentling the embrace, Gilbert eased away from Anne’s lovely lips until they separated, only their foreheads touching as they breathed the other’s air.

Slowly, Anne and Gilbert pulled back, eyes seeking regret, or remorse, or indifference in the other’s expression, but finding only a reflection of the same ardour, affection, and desire twinkling in the eyes of their sweetheart. Gilbert couldn’t help his smile, and Anne couldn’t help her breathless giggle. For a long time the two remained as they were, smiling and chuckling, until finally Gilbert pressed a quick peck to Anne’s happy lips before taking his hand away from her hair and stepping back from the gate.

“Tomorrow?” he asked, knowing she’d understand what he was asking without further elaboration.

“Tomorrow,” Anne agreed, her hair falling over her shoulder in the most becoming curtain that it was all Gilbert could do to turn around and walk away without reaching out for one of the tresses and bringing them to his lips.

Anne waited until Gilbert was part of the darkness before lowering herself from the gate and skipping back to Green Gables. 

She’d done it! She’d kissed Gilbert! And he’d kissed her!

The memory of it was beautiful and it had Anne lifting her head to laugh at the moon as she spun happy circles across her drive. She felt both wound up and relaxed, certain her soul was bursting with sunshine. Sleep would never come, not when Anne could still feel the pressure of Gilbert’s lips on her own, the warmth of his skin captured in the well of her palm, the littlest taste of him still sweet on the tip of her tongue.

Exhaling melodically, Anne veered away from Green Gables and headed for the stables. Even though she had no lantern, the young woman was able to see that both Belle and Butterscotch were still awake, the horses standing in their stalls as if they’d been waiting up for her to come home.

“Hello my dears,” she greeted, leaning over the stall to scratch the yearling’s muzzle. “I’ve had such a day. Do you want to hear all about it?” When the animals offered no whinnying protest, Anne smiled. “Well, I’ll begin by saying it was exactly as Gilbert said: S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Did I really just do that? Did I have Anne and Gilbert kiss? This early in the story? Is that a thing that I just did?!
> 
> Well, I did write it, and you just read it, so I guess it must be. 
> 
> And wasn’t it just too S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R?
> 
> But don’t forget, I’ve promised you a long, novel-length story, so am I really going to have the main couple get together so early without anything upsetting the applecart? Assuming you are not new to fan fiction, or Shirbert, or clichéd tropes, then nope. It won’t be that easy, because the course of true love never did run smooth, even for soulmates like Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and Gilbert Blythe. 
> 
> This kiss is only the beginning of a lot of romance, fluff, angst, UST, temper, and more kisses.
> 
> Prepare yourself.
> 
> And now, notes about the rest of the chapter:
> 
> Is it odd that I felt giddy writing about every awful thing that happened to Charlie this chapter? I mean, I didn’t want to make him too terrible, merely a product of his time and that damnable teenage egotism, but I gotta say when Anne dressed him down in front of the whole town…that was just so satisfying! 
> 
> And if you are a Charlie-fan, don’t worry, the boy will bounce back, though perhaps next time he proposes to a girl he’ll go about it differently (for her sake as much as his, I hope). 
> 
> Diana and Jerry aren’t being too subtle with their sneaking around, and with the smartest girl in Avonlea as their close friend, let’s just say it won’t be too long before they get caught. And oh boy, when that happens….well, I’m not going to spoil anything, but some choice words I’d use would be ‘explosive’, ‘star-crossed’, and ‘tragical’. 
> 
> And Mary’s baby is nearly due, so you know the labour chapter will be coming up soon. I’m very excited to write it and introduce all of you to the new Lacroix. It will be worth the wait, I promise. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Anne and Gilbert want to talk about their kiss, too bad the universe (RE: the Author) has other ideas
> 
> Thank you everyone! All your kudoses, comments, bookmarking and subscribing are just wonderful!


	8. Their Future Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: the Josie/Billy assault story line is discussed in this chapter. The details are subtle but the actions are clear and I want readers to know that before reading. If this is something that may trigger you I suggest you skip the FRIDAY section
> 
> Chapter Summary: Anne and Gilbert want to talk...the universe has other ideas

_‘Dear Anne,_

_Don’t ever be afraid._

_I know it is easier said than done, but I implore you to lean on your courage as you face every challenge life throws at you. Be daring! Adventurous! Be bold! Meet all that the world can bring you with a stalwart mind and open heart and never allow yourself to be bound by the weighty chains of doubt, or anxiousness, or fear. Your spirit was never meant to be caged, and I insist you spread your wings and soar…’_

* * *

For a universe that had seemed so determined to see Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and Gilbert Blythe reveal their romantic feelings for one another, it appeared those same cosmic forces enjoyed teasing the mere mortals of earth, for ever since their kiss _five days ago_ , Anne and Gilbert hadn’t had a moment alone to properly discuss what it all meant…

* * *

_ Tuesday _

Anne checked her reflection again, critically examining every freckle, every eyelash, and every loose strand of hair that refused to remain pressed tightly in her braids.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert what is keeping you?!” Marilla cried from downstairs. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

Sighing as she took one final appraisal, Anne almost went to her closet to change her dress for the fourth time but decided against it when she could hear Marilla’s stomp on the stairs. Resigned that there was nothing else she could do to make herself remotely appealing, Anne hurried out of her room, rushing downstairs and nearly toppling her mother over.

“Land’s sake, child, what has gotten into you?”

“Sorry. Nothing,” Anne answered, practically inhaling her toast. “I’m late.”

“It’s no wonder,” Marilla chided. “You were preening since dawn. Now really Anne, you must get your vanity under control. You’re a young woman now and you must learn to prioritize.”

“But isn’t the pursuit of beauty the very plinth of priority?” Anne countered, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above the hearth and fiddling with her braids again.

“Goodness, the way you’re carrying on one would think you have a suitor waiting for you,” Marilla said casually as she started clearing the table.

“Now that’s just cruel, Marilla. You know no one would want…” Anne didn’t finish the end of her rebuttal, one she had given several times to her mother when the woman would speculate of a future littered with suitors. But this time Anne found she couldn’t finish the contradiction, not when it might be a glorious lie.

Not when she knew how it felt to kiss Gilbert Blythe, have him kiss her back, and make promises of tomorrow.

“I have to go!” Anne announced, her body spinning with anticipation as she grabbed her books, almost forgot her hat, and dashed down the drive with a quick ‘love you’ to Mathew who tending to the radishes in the garden. She paused only for a minute to run her fingertips along the smooth wood of Green Gable’s gate, remembering what had happened there only eleven hours before, unable to help the excited skip to her step as she hurried into the heart of the Haunted Woods.

She knew Gilbert would meet her there; that the intention of a rendezvous had been the promise underneath his romantic whisper of ‘tomorrow’.

Slowing her run to a light-hearted gait, Anne basked in the flood of memories that kept her warm even as a cool wind rustled the trees around her. She listened to the air, the chirping blue jays, the crunch of dirt under her boots, the rustle of squirrels as they darted up the trees. All the sounds were like a joyful symphony of the vibrations flooding Anne’s heart, everything inside of her feeling a bit wild, a bit anxious, a bit bold.

What would Gilbert say? Would he confess his feelings? Would he recite a poem? Would he whisper something all too romantic into her ear? Would he hold her hand? Touch her hair? Kiss her again? The possibilities were endless, each one thrilling her in a different way.

Of course, there was the other side of the coin, the dark possibilities where Gilbert might not appear at all, or say that what they had done was a mistake. He could confess his feelings ran lukewarm, or that it had been curiosity rather than passion that had motivated his kiss…

…he could tell her that she’d imagined every moment of romance between them, that the look he’d given her over the take notice board, and the way his hand felt in hers while they danced, and how he’d said he wished it was the two of them attending the picnic together, were all a delusion she’d concocted in her fool mind.

But Anne couldn’t let herself think that.

She pushed the doubt deep down until she felt as if she were trotting on it with every step she took, determined to allow only the lovely expectations to keep her company. She would very much prefer it if a certain boy would show up to keep her company instead, but until then, the forest was certainly a favourite companion.

Anne was so enchanted with her imaginings and her surrounds that she almost tripped when she felt a finger tapping at her shoulder. Before she could stumble ungracefully to the ground, a steady hand reached around her waist and helped her regain her balance, the pressure at her side like a little sun, the touch so warm it made her whole body flush.

“Gilbert,” she sighed, looking up into the hazel eyes of the boy she’d been daydreaming of, her smile radiant as she took in his handsome features.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “I was calling your name, but you didn’t hear me.”

“I was imagining,” she answered, having to bite her lip to keep from begging him to keep his hand at her waist when he dropped it to his side.

“Good things?” he asked, his devilish smirk letting Anne know what he was hoping she’d been imagining involved him, and the moon, and a kiss under the stars.

“Perhaps,” she quipped, surprising herself at her coy reply, thrilled that she was flirting ( _actually flirting!_ ) with Gilbert Blythe.

Anne continued walking, her pace easy, and Gilbert kept up to her ambling stride, content to let the sunshine and woods swallow them whole. But as the minutes passed Anne’s nerves started to take hold, like ivy creeping up a wall, and she knew if one of them didn’t say something she was going to burst.

“It’s a lovely day,” she commented, cringing at how awkward she sounded, especially when Gilbert started chuckling.

“Of all the incredible things in this world there are to talk about, the most imaginative girl I know remarks on the weather,” he teased, knowing he earned the hard shove Anne gave.

“How can you make a joke right now?” she demanded, cross in her embarrassment. “I’ve never had to have this sort of conversation before.”

“What sort of conversation are we having?” Gilbert asked, feigning ignorance, unable to help getting Anne worked up when seeing her flustered and just on the edge of vexed was one of his favourite ways to admire her. Her skin would turn rosy, her eyes would start to crash and churn like the vast unending ocean, and her hair would seem like liquid fire tempting him ever closer to get burned.

“Don’t be cruel,” she requested, sounding far more vulnerable than mad. “Not now. Unless…maybe…it was a mistake –”

“No!” Gilbert said quickly, reaching out for Anne, hesitating when he wasn’t sure whether to place a hand at her elbow, as he’d been doing for so long now, or if everything that had transpired the night before meant he could hold her hand; that she would _let him_ hold her hand.

He settled for the elbow, familiar territory, something that was unlikely to spook her as that little touch was singular to the two of them. It meant he was her friend first, that he cared about her, that he wanted to be there for her, and that no matter what else may be about to change in their relationship, those simple truths would never budge.

“I’ve…never had to have this sort of conversation before either,” he confessed, wanting to let Anne know that, as always, everything between them was fair and square. His words did seem to ease the tension in the young woman’s body, her shoulders relaxing and her mouth losing its pursed pinch.

“You should go first,” Anne said, “since I went first yesterday.”

“You did, didn’t you,” Gilbert agreed, remembering how fantastically thrilling it had been when Anne had touched his face and pulled him close for a kiss.

His first kiss.

 _Their_ first kiss!

It was amazing, and surprising, and so brave that Gilbert knew he owed Anne the courtesy of admitting his feelings first. It shouldn’t be too hard, not when he’d been admitting them to himself for nearly a year, and yet, when he tried to make the words come, he found his mouth unable to do anything but smile at the girl before him in abject wonder. His expression must have been amusing, since Anne giggled, and Gilbert thought he might tell her that her laugh was like a birdsong to his ears, but before he could pay her the compliment there was a sharp snap that had the couple jerking to look over Anne’s shoulder where Diana Barry and Jerry Baynard were walking onto the path from a nearby cluster of birch trees.

“Diana? Jerry?” Anne said, grey eyes crinkling in confusion at seeing the two. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Diana echoed, her own dark stare wide and oddly on edge.

“Not you. Jerry,” Anne clarified, her attention trained on the tall, lanky farm lad who was nervously digging his hands in his pockets and looking everywhere but at his redheaded friend. “You’re running late, aren’t you? And how did you end up here when your house is on the other side of Avonlea?”

“I got lost,” Jerry answered quickly at the same time as Diana yelled out “It’s my fault!”

“I don’t understand,” Anne admitted, shooting Gilbert a quick glance and feeling somewhat relieved to note that he appeared just as confused as she.

“I bumped into Jerry on my way to school,” Diana explained, her tone breezy, but her mouth stiff, “and I started asking him questions about…cows.”

“Cows?” Anne repeated, even more baffled than she had been a moment ago.

“Yes. And we just got carried away with our conversation and lost track of the time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Diana huffed, marching up to Anne and looping their arms together. “Why are you behaving so suspiciously?”

“I just didn’t know you had any interest in cows, or that you and Jerry were familiar,” Anne replied.

“We’re not!” Jerry was quick to answer, fidgeting nervously. Anne was so puzzled by Jerry’s jittery behaviour that she never noticed Diana cringing, although Gilbert did, but he mercifully kept his observation to himself. “I’d better go.”

“Alright. Green Gables is that way,” Anne said, pointing down the trail towards her home.

“I know that!” Jerry groaned as he started running off, leavening Anne, Diana and Gilbert standing in the middle of the path in bewilderment.

“So, shall we go to school?” Diana wondered, tugging Anne along. “And then you can tell me why you and Gilbert were walking together.”

“Oh, we got lost,” Gilbert answered smartly, giving Diana pause and making Anne chuckle.

“You’re not funny,” Diana commented, but his sarcasm seemed to have deterred the seventeen-year old from further inquiries as to what the pair had been doing alone in the woods since she ignored the boy for the rest of their walk.

Instead, Diana amused herself with making plans with Anne to invite the rest of the girls to her house after school so they could take tea, gossip, and somewhere in-between, work on their embroidery. Anne agreed to the plans of course, and as Diana launched into a lament over the difficulties she was having with a pastoral scene she was stitching to a decorative pillowcase, the redhead looked over her shoulder at Gilbert and tried to tell him with a remorseful grin that she was sorry their moment had been interrupted.

‘Tomorrow,’ Gilbert mouthed to her with an understanding shake of his head.

Anne’s grin blossomed from something solemn into a smile as pretty as a daffodil and she nodded her understanding as all three made their way out of the woods and to the schoolhouse.

_ Wednesday _

Mary’s cry woke Gilbert so suddenly that he rolled out of bed in surprise. Disoriented, the eighteen-year old jumped up from the floor ran out of his room in only his long underwear and down the hall to Bash and Mary’s bedroom, not even bothering with the courtesy of knocking before throwing the door open.

“What’s wrong?!” he asked, the harsh light of dawn streaming through the window blinding him momentarily until his sight settled and he was able to make out Mary sitting up on her side of the bed, body bent over as she cried through grit teeth and clutched her belly.

“Think the baby’s coming,” Bash said, the man hoisting his suspenders over his shoulders, already half dressed as he skidded across the room. “There’s blood.”

“Blood?!” Gilbert cried, hurrying to Mary’s side.

“Spotting,” she corrected, taking a long deep breath. “And that’s normal.”

“I tell you what’s not normal is me having to rush all the way to Charlottetown to get a doctor willing to treat my pregnant wife!” Bash hollered.

“I can go,” Gilbert offered.

“No, you stay,” Bash commanded. He’d thrown his jacket on and put his wallet in his pocket before turning to Gilbert and pulling the boy close. “Something goes wrong, I need you here. Keep them safe ‘til I get back.”

“I will. I promise,” Gilbert vowed, and that was all he could say before Bash was dashing out the door and hitching Beau to the wagon for the ride to Bright River.

“Did you want to lie down?” Gilbert asked, back at Mary’s side and seeking some way to help.

“I need your watch,” she said, and Gilbert hurried to his room, taking a few minutes to throw on trousers before grabbing his pocket watch and bringing it to Mary.

“For timing the contractions?” he guessed and Mary nodded.

“I want to stand. I need to walk.”

Because he didn’t know if it was good or bad to let a woman in labour pace, Gilbert decided he needed to trust Mary to know her body’s limitations and so he walked beside her. They waddled up and down the hall, stopping sometimes so Gilbert could rub Mary’s back, other times so that Mary could grab at anything that was nearby (a doorframe, the stair railing, Gilbert’s arm) when she was wracked with sharp pain.

“Start timing now,” Mary instructed when she felt a surge of ripping agony shoot across her stomach. Gilbert did, his eyes trained on the hands of his watch as Mary moaned through the clenching sting.

“Forty-five seconds,” he said when it was over. “I should write that down. When was the last time you had a contraction?”

“The middle of the night, I think,” Mary said, sweating, and thirsty, and finally ready to lie down. “Over three hours ago. This one isn’t coming any time soon.”

“Have your waters broken?” Gilbert asked, helping Mary into her bed.

“No.”

“And the blood –”

“Spotting,” Mary interrupted. “Nothing worse than my regular cycle. All I had to change was my nightgown,” she reported, pointing to the soiled linen in the corner of her bedroom. Beyond the point of manners or embarrassment, Gilbert inspected the nightgown to see the truth of it for himself. There was dried blood staining the wool, but certainly not enough to suggest anything serious and that fact left Gilbert breathing a bit easier.

“I’ll get you some water,” he offered, handing Mary his watch and the paper and pencil he’d used to catalogue her progress. “If this is your labour, Mary, the baby’s early.”

“Not too early?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Gilbert confessed, trying to keep his voice even, but Mary was able to spot the concern in her brother’s wide hazel eyes. “I’ll get that water for you. If you have another contraction, call me.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mary assured. “I’ll holler so loud half of Avonlea will come running.”

Gilbert huffed a little laugh at Mary’s not so funny joke, knowing they needed the humour to get through the day.

And indeed, it was a long day that stretched before the pair. Mary’s contractions continued for hours, but their length never lasted longer than forty-five seconds (some only existed for mere snaps of a moment), and while over an hour would sometimes lapse between the sharp, tearing pain, Mary experienced constant cramps throughout the morning. Her waters never broke, and though she tried to tell Gilbert it was not unusual, she continued to spot blood. Gilbert did his best to keep occupied and be helpful. He changed the bedding and brewed ginger tea with some willow bark to help ease as much of Mary’s pain as was possible. He rubbed her feet, and fanned her sweltering body, and brought her glass after glass of water, even when she threatened to beat him with a wooden spoon.

By the time Bash arrived with Dr. Ward it was past two o’clock and Mary hadn’t had a proper contraction since noon. After a thorough examination, Dr. Ward determined that what Mary had experienced was false labour, assuring the little family that their newest member wasn’t quite ready to join them, although they certainly were getting prepared.

“I don’t like the spotting,” Dr. Ward informed Mary and Bash, the couple propped up in their bed as they watched the older man pack his medicine bag. “I’m afraid it’s strict bed rest until the little one comes.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Mary said, rubbing her hands slowly over her swollen belly.

“Yes sir,” Bash agreed, shaking the man’s hand. “Sorry to take you away from your clinic, but my family thank you for taking such good care over us.”

“You’re welcome,” Dr. Ward said. “And speaking of taking are of your family…” He took a pad of paper and pencil from his bag and jotted down a name and address, handing the note over to Gilbert.

“Susan Baker?”

“She is the best midwife on the island,” Dr. Ward said. “And she lives in Glen St. Mary.”

Gilbert understood Dr. Ward’s meaning immediately. The Glen was a seaside town on the north-east end of Prince Edward Island. It was blooming with quaint charm, was popular with tourists all year round, and was a little less than two hours away from Avonlea by horse; much closer than Charlottetown, especially when one had to rely on trains.

“She’s a sharp woman,” Dr. Ward continued, “and has been delivering new Islanders for over twenty years. I had taken the liberty of sending her a telegram about you not long after our last appointment, Mrs. Lacroix, and she’s assured me she will be at the ready the moment you send word the baby is coming.”

“Thank you,” Gilbert said, pocketing the information as Bash and Mary expressed their own gratitude. “Let me walk you to the door.”

Before seeing his mentor off, Gilbert settled the doctor’s bill as well as his train fare back to Charlottetown. He offered to drive Dr. Ward back to Bright River but the man kindly refused, insisting he would enjoy the walk on such a lovely afternoon. Once Dr. Ward departed, Gilbert figured it was best to give Bash and Mary some time together and resolved to get supper started. He had just set the water to boil for the potatoes when there was a rapid knock at the kitchen side door. Gilbert opened it, wondering if Dr. Ward had forgotten something, and was stunned to find Anne on the other side, cheeks blotchy and breathing hard.

“Anne,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter. “Did you run here?’ he asked, noting the dirt on her white stockings, as if she’d kicked up half the road in her rush to his house.

“Is everything alright?!” she countered, grey eyes frantic.

“Yes, but how –”

“I was bringing your homework,” she began hurriedly, dropping her lunch basket on the table, the little wicker carrier weighed down with books and papers. “I was curious when you weren’t at school this morning, but I wasn’t worried, not really. You’ve missed class before for all manner of reasons and while I was certain you hadn’t jumped another steamship, when you never appeared at all or sent word to Ms. Stacy I started to grow a bit concerned and was resolved to come here, and since it was literally my destination I volunteered to take your homework. I wasn’t rushing, because I knew I was being silly for getting as worried as I was, and thought I’d make a short detour to pick some flowers from the most magical field I’d discovered a few weeks ago –”

“You were bringing me flowers?” Gilbert asked, unable to help himself from interrupting, completely charmed by the idea of Anne bouncing through a field scooping up wildflowers in her arms and then appearing at his doorstep with a fragrant bouquet.

“I _was_ ,” the redhead stressed, “but on route I bumped into Mrs. Lynde and she didn’t hesitate to tell me that she’d spotted Bash and Dr. Ward coming from the direction of Bright River. She was thinking there would be news of the baby before nightfall but I knew if Mary was truly having the baby that you would have fetched me, and you hadn’t, so surely that meant something was wrong!”

“Oh Anne,” Gilbert sighed, unable to help himself from taking the girl into his arms and rocking her a while, letting her catch her breath and settle her nerves from the fright she’d been given.

“I thought you were hurt,” she confessed, face tucked into his shoulder, her voice muffled. “You can’t begin to guess all the gruesome fates I’d imagined for you. Lost limbs, hideous scars, amnesia! Oh, I was absolutely lost in the fog of such a wretched fantasy where you’d struck your head by falling out of an apple tree and couldn’t remember me!”

“That’s impossible,” Gilbert assured, stepping back some so he could look at Anne and let her look at him, hoping his earnestness and adoration for her reflected in his eyes.

“You told me redheads were hideous and you were in love with Josie Pye,” Anne continued.

“Also impossible,” Gilbert assured, chuckling as he brought a hand up Anne’s arm so he could run the back of his fingers along one of her braids, the thick ginger plait draped alluringly over her chest. “Red’s my favourite colour.”

Anne sighed as Gilbert stroked her hair, eyes closing as she was comforted by his touch, her worry and anxiety draining from her like drops of dew trickling off a leaf. When she opened her eyes, Anne found herself looking directly into Gilbert’s, the little flecks of gold that reminded her of honeybees twinkling at her with esteem, and kindness, and something she was only just starting to suspect was desire. A purposeful softness came over his handsome features and Anne felt his one arm that still spanned across her back become firm and start to pull her close. She went willingly, hypnotized by those delightful golden bumblebees. Even as she started to lower her lashes as their faces inched closer, Anne could still see them, radiant as they danced within those warm hazel circles …

“Blythe! Have you put the kettle on? Mary would like some tea,” Bash called, his hollered request accompanied by the steady plodding of his steps as the man walked down the stairs and made his way to the kitchen.

As one, Anne and Gilbert took a wide step away from each other, knowing they did not want to be caught in a moment, not when there were still so many things they had to sort out before they went making announcements. When Bash entered the kitchen, he found Gilbert at the stove putting potatoes in a pot and Anne at the table taking Gilbert’s homework out of her basket. There was nothing untoward or suspicious, save for the odd energy in the air that had Bash feeling as if he’d intruded.

“Good evening to you, Anne,” he greeted, as he went for the kettle and filled it with water. “You and Ms. Stacy keeping this mook on his toes, I see,” he joked, eyeing the textbooks Anne had placed neatly on the table.

“Well, it’s no fun beating him for top marks if he doesn’t study,” Anne teased back, knowing Gilbert was taking the razing in good humour. “But Bash, I ran into Mrs. Lynde and she said she saw you with Dr. Ward. Is Mary alright?”

Bash related the day’s events as well as Mary’s health, doing his best to put Anne at ease when she started to fret. It was only with a sworn pinky-promise from the Trinidadian that someone would fetch her the moment Mary was in labour, false or no, that Anne finally relented and said she’d leave the little family to enjoy their dinner.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” Anne asked

“Tomorrow,” Gilbert promised as he held the door for her. “I may be a bit late; Bash and I have to survey the orchard with Mr. Barry right after breakfast.” It was his way of telling her not to worry, but also that they wouldn’t have an opportunity to meet in the woods before lessons.

“You’ll be staying for the prep class, though, won’t you?” Anne asked, her way of letting Gilbert know they’d be alone to walk home afterwards and finally start that conversation.

“Wouldn’t want to take away your fun of beating me,” he teased gently. “I’ll see you there.”

“See you,” Anne said, and with a little bob of her head the sixteen-year old was out the door and making her way back to Green Gables.

“Did I interrupt something?” Bash asked when Gilbert closed the door, the merry twinkle in his smile telling Gilbert his brother knew perfectly well he’d intruded on a moment. “Want to run after her and profess your love? I won’t mind.”

Gilbert wasn’t even a bit sorry when the wooden spoon he threw hit Bash square on the backside.

_ Thursday _

The storm came out of nowhere.

One moment the early afternoon sky had been bright and blue, and then Anne had turned away from the window to focus on her geometry sums when suddenly it seemed as if the school had been cast in night. As one, the students of Avonlea stood and looked out the window at the rapidly rolling clouds of charcoal grey, the unsettling rumble of thunder shaking the floorboards under their feet. Immediately after the long quake of thunder passed a massive wind roared across the field and threw the school’s door wide open, the slamming wood and creaking hinges making many students jump and some scream. Anne was quickly at the door along with Moody and Ms. Stacy, the three of them using all their strength to force the door shut so they could bolt it against another gale.

Then the rain came pelting down, an entire ocean seeming to drop from the heavens on the little schoolhouse. The cacophony of the rain slapping on the tiles was almost as roaring as the thunder, and Ms. Stacy worried the windows would break under the fierce pressure.

“We’ll get the storm shutters,” Gilbert said, leading a group of boys outside from the supply room door and to the storage shed alongside the outhouse at the far end of the schoolyard. Anne moved as if to join them, but Ms. Stacy asked her to stay behind and help with placing buckets under the few leaks that were dripping steadily from the ceiling.

“We can’t go home in this,” Tillie lamented as she watched the boys board up their first window.

“No indeed,” Ms. Stacy agreed. “But, no use fretting over a little deluge.”

“ _This is little_?!” Ruby whispered furiously in Diana’s ear.

“We just need to focus our minds on something else,” Ms. Stacy concluded firmly.

“Good luck,” Josie said sardonically, her attention drawn to the windows that were quickly being boarded up, the steady thump of hammers nailing the shutters down almost as loud as the constant drone of heavy thunder and startling crack of lightning.

It was also quickly becoming darker and darker in the little schoolhouse as each storm shutter was erected, and those inside worked furiously to light candles and lanterns. They couldn’t light the stove since rain was pelting down the pipe, dampening everything inside. They did set several candles on the stovetop, though, so that when the boys who’d gone out into the storm returned they would have somewhere to warm up.

“Tell us a story, Anne,” Ruby begged once there was nothing left to do but listen to the howling winds and drumming rain and wait as the boys finished boarding up the last three windows.

With the rest of her classmates’ encouragement, and Ms. Stacy’s consent, Anne stood at the front of the room and launched into an engaging tale of a haunted pirate ship, the souls of the sailors aboard the drifting vessel doomed to wander the seven seas until a dark curse was lifted. With her natural bravado and flare for dramatics, Anne had her audience enthralled as she spun her nautical yarn. All eyes and ears were on her, breaths held and hearts beating wildly in anticipation as Anne was about to describe the gruesome visage of the ghastly ghost captain, when a rattling scream shook the room more viciously than the thunder.

“What on earth?!” Ms. Stacy wondered, rushing for the back room to investigate, her students either cowering or crowding behind her to see who had unleashed such a cry. No one was left to wonder long, for as soon as Ms. Stacy wrenched open the supply room door Gilbert lurched into the classroom, soaked to the bone and supporting Moody’s body, the shorter boy’s right leg dripping a steady stream of blood.

Ruby fainted with a high little gasp, Diana and Josie barely able to catch her before her head struck the floor.

“Put him here,” Ms. Stacy instructed, swiping her arm over her desk so that papers, ink bottles, and pens rained down about the room. Gilbert placed Moody on the desk, the poor injured boy moaning as he was jostled. “What happened?” the teacher asked.

“Slipped and cut his leg on a rock,” Gilbert answered, his focus narrowed to Moody’s laceration. Without wasting a moment, Gilbert tore Moody’s trousers so he could get a better look at the injury.

“Here,” Anne said, at Gilbert’s side within the blink of an eye, one of the buckets of rainwater in her hands. Nodding, Gilbert tipped the bucket over Moody’s wound, the young man gritting his teeth against the sting, face going pale.

The cut was deep and ugly, the skin surrounding it already swollen.

“It needs stitches,” Gilbert reported and Ms. Stacy didn’t hesitate to go to one of the cupboards where she kept a sewing kt.

“No, no, no. Please, no,” Moody begged, going bug-eyed as he watched Gilbert thread a needle.

“I’m afraid it must be done, Moody,” Ms. Stacy reported sympathetically, cupping the boy’s head in her palms and doing her best to make him comfortable. “Gilbert, you do know what you’re doing?” she checked.

“I’ve done simple stitches at Dr. Ward’s office,” he reported confidently as he assessed the injury. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to confess that Moody’s cut was unlike any other he’d sewn up before. Only Anne seemed to notice Gilbert’s hiccough in calm, the pair catching a quick look at each other across Moody’s trembling body. Without being told, the redhead braced her hands on either side of Moody’s wound, holding his leg flat and firm against the desk.

“Try not to squirm, Moody,” she asked kindly, and then all parties took a deep breath together and Gilbert made the first stitch.

The rest of the boys that had finished shuttering the windows returned inside just in time to witness the impromptu surgery, some looking away while others gaped and crept closer in morbid fascination.

“If you’re all going to stand there, you may as well bring some light over,” Anne suggested, her comment not so much a request but a firm demand. The boys that were intent on watching did as she bade, gathering candles and lanterns before huddling around Moody who was sweating and biting his lip raw as Gilbert weaved stitch after stitch into his skin. Some of the girls even joined the circle, gasping, or observing with keen interest, or patting their suffering classmate’s chest and offering tender words.

Gilbert finished as quickly as he could, his stitches a bit crooked and the promise of scar a certainty, but the wound was closed. He dabbed more water over the injury and when he asked for fabric to dress the cut Anne was quick to doff her pinafore and started tearing it into strips which Gilbert carefully wrapped around Moody’s leg. When it was all over, Moody was propped up on the desk, a recovered Ruby at his side nursing him with lukewarm tea (the best Ms. Stacy could do with no stove and only candlelight to heat the water) and spoonfuls of honey as per Gilbert’s instructions.

With the excitement of Moody’s injury and the shuttering of the windows over, the students of Avonlea tucked themselves away throughout the classroom. Some sat at their desks, others curled together under dry jackets, and some groups huddled around circles of candles and played at performing séances.

Anne, Gilbert and a few others were perched on the floor under a window, the steady drone of hard rain soothing everyone down from their adrenaline high.

“What you did was amazing, Gilbert,” Diana exclaimed.

“You could be a surgeon!” Tillie declared.

“I don’t think my stitches are neat enough for that,” Gilbert said, bashful under their praise.

“Do you know what kind of medicine you think you’d like to study?” Paul (the husky one) wondered.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Gilbert admitted, a shiver of discomfort rolling down his spine, but he brushed it off as a chill from his damp clothes rather than the encroaching concern that his future was fast approaching and he was no nearer to making a decision about any of it.

“Well, whatever you decide to do, you’re sure to be an expert,” Tillie stated, and then she stood to fetch another cup of tea, Husky Paul at her side.

“I’m going to see how Ruby is,” Diana announced, leaving Anne and Gilbert alone.

“They’re right,” Anne commented once they no longer had an audience, bumping her arm against Gilbert’s. “You’re going to be an amazing doctor.”

“Well if you ever decide teaching’s not for you I think your next vocation should be in medicine. You were fantastic!”

“I didn’t do anything special,” Anne replied, bashful under Gilbert’s high esteem.

“You thought quick on your feet,” Gilbert stated. “You brought the water and ripped your pinafore. You got us more light and held Moody still. That takes a lot of strength of body and mind, especially when it’s for a friend.”

“I just did what anyone else would do.”

“But they wouldn’t,” Gilbert insisted, “because no one knew what to do except you. And it’s not just seeing what needed to be done, but you were compassionate, and followed my cues. You’re always so level-headed in panicked situations. I’m serious, you’d be an excellent doctor,” he complimented passionately, bumping her arm back.

“Can you imagine?” Anne said softly, a wistful smile on her face. “You and I working side-by-side in an operating room?”

“Why not? We do make a pretty good T-E-A-M.”

“It’s not really fair and square if you pick easy words,” Anne said around a chuckle. “How about…aggregation.”

Gilbert was easily enticed to spelling the word, the duo going back and forth with their private spelling bee, neither missing a single letter as the hours dragged and the storm continued to bellow. When they’d exhausted themselves of the competition, Anne reclined fully against the wall, tilting her head towards Gilbert so that one of her braids fell down her arm, the very end of her long plait whispering against Gilbert’s side. Anne smiled and Gilbert smiled back, their faces awash in the orange candlelight, making Gilbert’s jaw seem even sharper against the contrasting shadows, and Anne’s hair truly did take on the fiery hue of fresh carrots. Their eyes held the heart of the candles’ flames, pupils blown wide as they stared at one another, wishing they were alone, that they could finally have that promised conversation that had been waiting around the edges of their lips for three days.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Their long overdue talk would remain as such, at least for another day.

As the storm finally started to ease, about three hours after it started, worried parents began arriving at the schoolhouse to collect their children. Mathew came for Anne and offered Gilbert a ride back to his orchard. The ride was short, pleasant even in the rain which fell at a much lighter pace, and when they pulled to a stop at the end of Gilbert’s drive Anne sneakily reached for the boy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W?” she asked, holding back a giggle when Gilbert ran his thumb over her knuckles.

“See you, Doctor Shirley-Cuthbert.”

Anne watched Gilbert rush into his house, grateful when Mathew didn’t comment on how long her gaze lingered on the boy’s retreating figure, although her father did smile and say, rather out of the blue, that Gilbert Blythe was a nice young man.

_ Friday _

Finally, they were alone.

Well, soon they would finally be alone. Ms. Stacy was still puttering about her desk, organizing the day’s history assignment, but once she had her things in order the teacher would leave. It would just be Anne, Gilbert, and the printing press left alone in the school. It was perfect.

Hours stretched like an ocean before the two, time that would be filled with talk, and confessions, and laughter, and follow-up questions, and maybe (most certainly) kisses. Just the thought (memory) of Gilbert’s kiss had Anne feeling giddy, so much so that she took a small, short breath that sounded strange and airy. The little half sigh caught Gilbert’s attention, and he looked over at Anne from across the printing press, unable to fight a smile. The eagerness that radiated from him was almost too much to bear, so Anne turned away, trying to compose herself and hope Ms. Stacy didn’t notice she was blushing. It was hard not to, though, especially when she felt a light pressure on her wrist and looked down to see Gilbert’s pointer finger retreating, his blunt, ink stained nail leaving a satisfying scratch across her flesh just under the word ‘fond’, which he’d pressed to his hand by touching the word in the wet typeset before stamping the endearment on her.

Charmed by the gesture, Anne followed suit, finding the word ‘sweet’ in the typeset of a story on the baking secrets of Avonlea’s matrons, and placed the black letters to her palm before transferring the sentiment to Gilbert’s forearm, making sure to give the limb an extra affectionate squeeze. Now Gilbert was chuckling, low and lovely, and Anne wished desperately that Ms. Stacy would go.

“I’ve been giving your suggestion on wider scope articles some thought, Anne,” the teacher said from her desk, eyes downcast on the papers she was sorting so she never noticed when Gilbert pressed his hand just under the redhead’s jaw, leaving ‘delightful’ in its wake. That’s not to say she didn’t notice the blatant back-and-forth flirting between the pair, she was just choosing to tastefully ignore it.

“And? What do you think?” Anne asked.

“I think it has potential,” Ms. Stay said, unable to cease her own enthusiasm when Anne bounced towards her, an expression of excitement highlighting her features. “We’ll have to go about it craftily.”

“So we need a strategy,” Anne agreed, her mind already abuzz with where to begin.

“You should start with an article on the Mi’kmaq,” Gilbert suggested as he hung a fresh printed paper to dry. “If we start with something close to home; to a subject that affects Avonlea directly, then it might be easier to ease readers towards accepting more global ideas later on.”

“Excellent point, Gilbert,” Ms. Stacy praised, and Anne couldn’t help the combined rush of pride and testiness she felt for the boy.

After all, while Gilbert may be on the cusp of becoming her sweetheart, he was still her most ardent academic rival, and something as silly as courtship wouldn’t change that. In truth, Anne thought the competitiveness a rather interesting spice that made their relationship (no matter if it was romantic or platonic) all the more flavourful. It would be boring if they were always in full agreement, and Anne was determined that if she was finally going to have her life’s great romance it was not going to be bland. She was sure that Gilbert would agree, too, if they ever did get a moment to talk alone.

“Well, I suppose I’m just about ready,” Ms. Stacy finally said, stuffing the papers she’d been diligently organizing into a file. “You’re both still coming to tomorrow’s study party?” she asked the pair, her final digression before taking her leave.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gilbert said at the same time Anne said “Of course!”

“I hope Dr. Ward isn’t too cross with you for choosing me over your internship,” Ms. Stacy said to Gilbert.

“It’s just for one day,” Gilbert shrugged. “And he knows the exams are important.”

“I’m glad, then. So, my house at eleven.”

“I’m going to be a bit late,” Anne informed apologetically. “Marilla and Mrs. Lynde are making me some skirts and blouses for college and they’ll be measuring me from head to toe tomorrow morning. But I promise to bring some of Marilla’s plum puffs as a boon for my tardiness.”

“It is the only way I would give clemency for such a transgression,” Ms. Stacy teased. “Right then, this shouldn’t take you two much longer. I’ll see you–”

_BOOM!_

The crack of the front door being pushed open as if by a battering ram startled the trio, all jumping at the thundering entrance and turning sharply to greet whomever it was that had barged into the building.

It was Josie Pye, her green eyes puffy from crying, the telltale tears having made thin glistening rivers down her cheeks. Her curls were askew and knotted by the wind, her boots caked in dirt and her violet dress looked disheveled in odd places. When she noticed that there were people to witness her horrid entrance, Josie broke down into trembling tears, covering her face in her hands as she wept in the cloakroom.

“Josie?” Anne said, tentative as she approached the sobbing girl, certain her assistance would be rejected. But Josie didn’t cower from Anne or erupt in anger. Instead, she collapsed into Anne’s arms the moment the redhead was close enough to reach, her whole body wracked with sobs that vibrated against Anne, forcing the sixteen-year old to grip her friend or else topple over. “Josie?” she asked again.

“He’s not a nice boy,” the blonde murmured against Anne’s shoulder.

“Who?”

“Billy.”

“Did Billy do something?” Ms. Stacy asked, having joined the pair, her hand gently stroking Josie’s back. “Josie, are you hurt?”

“I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea,” Josie continued to cry, looking at Anne, her green eyes rimmed an angry red and filled with betrayal. “He said he wanted to talk…but he lied.”

“Josie, what did Billy do?” Anne asked, but when Josie only blubbered as her eyes darted away shamefully, Anne decided she didn’t need to know anything save that Josie was upset and Billy Andrews was the cause of it. Josie wouldn’t make a false accusation, especially about the boy her family so desperately hoped she would marry.

While that little fact had never sat right with Anne, Josie herself had seemed smitten enough with the bullish Billy since she’d started stepping out with him last autumn and Anne had given the courtship as little mind as possible. It wasn't any of her business if Josie liked Billy so much she wanted to be tied with him forever, and even if she had voiced her salty opinion on the brute Josie wouldn’t listen anyway. She and Anne were friends by a frayed thread, easily snapping into enemy territory time and time again. But now Josie was cowering and vulnerable, and she needed someone to support her, and Anne would never leave a soul unsheltered if she could help it. 

“Josie?”

Startled by the cry, Josie pushed out of Anne’s hold and looked out the open door, shivering when she saw Billy hurrying to the schoolhouse.

“Mr. Andrews!” Ms. Stacy cried, halting the boy in his tracks as she made long lunges towards him, fists tight in her skirt and an air of menace wafting from her in such strong waves that Billy had the wherewithal to cower at the encroaching teacher, though he did not retreat. “Explain yourself.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Stacy, this is none of your business,” Billy said, trying to sound confident but his voice quivered a little, his jaw shivering as he continued. “This is between me and my girl.”

“If by ‘your girl’ you mean Miss Pye then I know you’ll have noticed she has no interest in speaking with you,” Ms. Stacy replied. “In fact, I think the only speaking you’ll be doing this afternoon is between me and your parents. Come along.”

“You can’t –”

“Mr. Andrews I am not a patient woman by nature so I suggest you not keep me waiting!”

And because he was a coward despite his pretentious bravado, Billy did as his former teacher bade, shoulders slumped and gait harried as he moved to keep up with her.

“Billy,” Josie yelled just before he crossed out of the schoolyard. The young man turned back eagerly, a glow of hope giving colour to his pallid face. “Don’t call on me. Ever again.”

A shadow crossed Billy’s face, one Anne couldn’t say was due to anger, humiliation, or shame. But whatever storm of emotion was rioting through the young man, Billy had the common sense to leave the conversation at that, turning on his heel and walking steadily behind Ms. Stacy. Anne, Josie and Gilbert watched until the departing pair were tiny dots across the field, Josie’s trembles calming as the minutes passed.

“I’m going home,” the blond said, arms crossed over her middle and eyes trained on her boots as she went down the school steps.

“I’ll go with you,” Anne offered, catching up to Josie quickly and tossing an apologetic glance back at Gilbert who shook his head as if to wave off her regret. He understood there were more important things than the _Avonlea Gazette_ or even their own personal matters that needed Anne’s attention, and for that she was grateful for his kind heart. The promise of ‘tomorrow’ didn’t need to be said as Anne hurried to keep pace with Josie. She could feel the word in her soul as if Gilbert had stamped it there; a print that was not as visible as the other words he’d pressed on her, but one that held infinite more meaning and beauty.

The two girls walked in brisk silence, trekking familiar sandy paths through the Haunted Woods and thankfully not running into anyone along the way. Every now and again Josie would stop and shudder, and Anne would wait patiently by her side, never judging as the blond composed herself and continued walking with a stony expression until she would utter a series of muffled tears and have to stop again.

“He said he wanted to talk,” Josie said, breaking the silence at last, head still facing the ground and voice so hoarse it disturbed Anne to listen, but listen she did, because that is what Josie needed. “He wanted to be away from everyone, just the two of us. I thought he might ask…or maybe we’d kiss. I liked kissing him. But he wanted something else. We went to the woods and he backed me into a tree, pressed against me. I told him to step back, but he said I’d like it and I thought…maybe I might. How would I know unless…so I let him, but then he…”

Josie paused, her steps ceased, and she shut her eyes as she crossed her arms high over her chest, gripping her shoulders tight, as if she could fold herself in half if she tried. Anne wanted to reach for Josie then, but knew it was likely to do more harm than good, remembering times when she’d been lost in the throes of phantoms from her past. Anne didn’t like to be touched either when she was remembering awful things and she suspected Josie was the same. So Anne stayed at her friend’s side and waited, knowing Josie needed to purge herself of what Billy had done and that she needed someone who wouldn’t judge, someone who would understand, to be there for her.

“When you told us what your Mrs. Lacroix said about intimate relations,” Josie started after a few long, deep breaths, “I thought you were vulgar. And why shouldn’t you be? You’re common, both of you. What do either of you know about good manners or dignity? What you told us about relations between men and women was deplorable. It was never like that with Billy in all the months we’ve been courting and I thought it never would be. But he got too close. It became hard to breath, like trying to keep your head above water in a bottomless lake, and when he kissed my ne—…

“It didn’t feel good. I told him it didn’t. He said he would make it…make me feel good. And then I knew why he wanted me alone, what he’d wanted from the start…and I didn’t. I told him I didn’t. I told him to stop. Then he touched me.

“He was rough. It hurt. So I slapped him and he finally moved away and I ran, but he started chasing me, saying he just wanted to talk, promising I’d misunderstood, and I knew he was lying! He’s just trying to protect himself, or trying to trick me again, trying to make me believe...I’m so stupid!”

“You’re not!” Anne responded passionately, taking one of Josie’s hands in hers and squeezing, surprised at herself for the action but even more surprised when Josie didn’t let go and squeezed right back. “You told Billy to stop and he didn’t listen. That doesn’t make you stupid and that doesn’t make it your fault.”

“But I went with him into the woods,” Josie cried, humiliated and afraid. “I’ve let him kiss me before. It’s why he expected –”

“A skirt is not an invitation, remember?” Anne asked, seeing the recollection alight in Josie’s green eyes to something Anne had hollered at Billy well over a year ago. “A kiss one day is not a promise of a kiss the next. And just because you’re courting doesn’t mean you are to be expected to give or do more than you are comfortable with, and any suitor worthy of your heart will respect that!”

Anne words rang clear and true, like church bells on Sunday morning. Josie started crying in earnest again, unleashing her fury at what Billy had done, how he’d made her feel sullied in her own skin and afraid of her own thoughts, her own feelings. He took something she’d believed was precious and made it cheap…made her cheap.

“I’ll never be able to face anyone in town again,” she lamented.

“Why not? You did nothing wrong,” Anne insisted, offering Josie a handkerchief to dry her eyes. “No one but you is allowed to dictate what you’re worth. And any suitor you choose to have should make you feel more yourself than anyone else.”

Anne’s truth rattled both girls to their cores: Josie because it was the first time anyone had told her she was enough on her own, and Anne because she realized that Gilbert had always made her feel no more or less than Anne with an ‘e’. It made her desperate to speak with him, to share this revelation, to ask him if she made him feel the same way. Their discussion over their kiss and what it all meant was long overdue and Anne found she was starving for the satiation only Gilbert’s honesty could provide. And as she walked Josie the rest of the way to her house, the girls finding an unusually easy companionship in that slow trek, Anne resolved that she would find a way to speak with Gilbert about her feelings very soon…

_ Saturday _

“Do you have something against micro-organisms?” Gilbert asked as he watched Anne cross out a whole paragraph he’d written on the cholera research being conducted at McGill.

“Not as much as you seem to think it’s a good idea to talk about another university’s research in your entrance essay to Redmond,” Anne countered, continuing to make her drastic edits, undeterred by Gilbert’s grumbling.

“I’m showing them my interests,” he argued, “and the fact that I’m keeping up-to-date on the latest innovations.”

“For nine pages!” Anne stressed, waving the sheaves of paper in Gilbert’s face and snatching them away before he could steal them from her grip. “You’re burying yourself in amongst your interests and innovations. This essay is supposed to show the admittance board who Gilbert Blythe is, not which medical periodicals he reads.”

“Reading medical periodicals is part of who Gilbert Blythe is,” the eighteen-year old countered, though there was no barb in his words. He knew Anne was right. It was just so difficult to talk about oneself. It felt too much like bragging, and Gilbert had always been humble.

Anne had been after him to be more personal in his entrance essay, suggesting he include his years caring for his father, the initial impetus that had illuminated his interest in medicine before assisting the prostitute in Trinidad to birth her daughter had cemented his decision to pursue a medical vocation. The impromptu birthing he’d agreed to add, but having to pen his experiences during those last years with his father that were both too long and too short felt too raw. He didn’t like remembering those times, preferring to keep happy and healthier memories alight in his mind. Going back and recalling every doctors’ visit, every endless night of congested coughing, every salve and tincture and old wives’ tale on how to soothe crippled lungs, every good day and bad one, were all doors Gilbert had no interest in opening.

“I want to be taken seriously,” he said to Anne. “My own merits should be what earn my place at Redmond, not pity for the poor orphan boy who couldn’t even save his father.”

“The poor orphan boy who couldn’t save his father and so has resolved to dedicate his life to seeing that there are no more poor orphan boys ever again,” Anne countered poetically, her words striking Gilbert like arrows. He’d never told her of that precious dream; that it was his most ardent wish that he might make it possible for no child to have to suffer the loss he had. He should have known Anne would know. She could read him better than he could read himself most times, and it made him adore her more than he had just seconds before.

“Fine,” he huffed in good humor, taking his essay from her and placing the pages on the book nestled against his knees. “Can I borrow your pen?”

Anne handed the pen over casually and Gilbert took it between his fingers, subtly sneaking a tickling caress to her knuckles before plucking the fountain pen from her loose grip, smiling when he felt Anne bump her knee against his thigh.

They were perched on a chest in Ms. Stacy’s parlour, the rest of the chairs and sofas otherwise occupied by their classmates, every one of them absorbed in their revision (and occasionally peeking over at Anne and Gilbert to watch the blatant flirting, but the pair in question never noticed). Ms. Stacy was in her kitchen preparing some lemonade and singing a jaunty melody about telephones and sweethearts that Anne thought was called ‘Hello Ma Baby’. The sun beamed through the window, casting the parlour in a calm yellow light that warmed Anne and Gilbert’s backs as they continued to flirt and study throughout the rest of the afternoon.

They would banter words back and forth, debating which was the best to use in Gilbert’s essay.

When Anne ignored him because she was too focused on her history notes and he wanted her to look over a paragraph he’d constructed, Gilbert tugged on her braid and called her ‘carrots’, which had the desired effect of Anne dropping her notes and shooting Gilbert an irked expression. The air in the room seemed to gasp as all their classmates watched and waited for Anne to pummel Gilbert with a textbook, but instead the redhead pinched Gilbert’s arm, a relatively light sentence, and then looked over his paragraph and promptly told him 'irregardless' wasn’t a real word before returning to her own revision.

Spontaneous spelling bees would alight between them on-and-off as the day passed.

Anne brushed dirt off Gilbert’s shoulder (there was no dirt), and Gilbert swiped an eyelash off Anne’s cheek (there was no eyelash).

They spoke of the dreams they hoped their vocations would fulfill, and where they hoped life would take them, and how they felt both bound to their sweet little town of Avonlea but that something was pulling them away and how that draw was equally terrifying and exhilarating.

“I don’t want to just see change,” Anne said quietly, giving her eyes a break from her notes. “I want to be part of it. I know you understand.”

“The world is moveable,” Gilbert agreed, thinking of all the wonderous things he saw while traveling on the Primrose. He’d spent days telling Anne about subways, and Ferris wheels, batteries, combustion trackers, and cotton candy, and so many other incredible innovations that he felt himself looking towards the twentieth century with an eager heart.

“No matter where life takes me, I know I must be a relentless thorn in the side of those who refuse to amend the status quo,” Anne declared, a fate and mantel which she donned gladly.

“Of course you must,” Gilbert agreed, the compliment not at all concealed in his reply. “And I must not be a doctor limited to delivering death sentences and condolences to my patients. I believe we can fix people. We just haven’t figured out how, and I want to be there when we do.” 

“Write that!” Anne exclaimed. “Write that down right now!”

She reached for the pen that was idling loosely in Gilbert’s hand, her exuberant stretch knocking the instrument out of his grip. It clanked lightly on the floor and both adolescents moved to pick it up, their fingers wrapping around each other’s. Anne held her breath as she and Gilbert sat up, the pen cradled in their shared grip, warm skin against warm skin, two hearts beating fast as grey and hazel stared deeply at one another. When Gilbert licked his lips Anne unconsciously copied the action, thinking she needed to kiss Gilbert again before she forgot how lovely he felt and tasted.

“Anne! Gilbert!” Jane’s voice cried out from the kitchen, but it very well could have been the redhead’s own sense of decorum. She was absolutely jostled by how close she’d come to kissing Gilbert in front of her entire class (all of whom had been watching the intense drama with baited breath and were disappointed at Jane’s interruption) and tried to keep a composed resolve as she watched Jane stomp from the kitchen, tugging a grumbling Ruby beside her.

“Let go,” Ruby whined, but Jane wouldn’t.

“Tell her to focus!” Jane demanded of the pair. “All Ruby’s done for the last hour is daydream and turn geometric shapes into hearts.”

“Funny, Moody’s been doing the same thing,” Charlie teased, only to be pushed off the low table he’d been sitting on with the boy in question.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset over it,” Ruby groused, finally freeing her arm from Jane’s grip. “Who says that being romantic is any less respectable than being studious? And why are you telling Anne and Gilbert? They’re both far too scholarly to really understand true romance.”

Jaws dropped throughout the room, and Josie even slapped Tillie’s thigh when the girl started sputtering in an attempt to keep her giggles in check. Ruby was completely ignorant to the absurdity of her outlandish proclamation and Anne and Gilbert were suddenly looking everywhere but at each other (and utterly failing at it as both kept sneaking glances like a nervous twitch). Gilbert relinquished his hold on the pen and fidgeted with his essay while Anne pretended to make edits to her notes, but all she managed to do was smudge ink across the paper.

“Perhaps I can be of some help,” Ms. Stacy offered, emerging from the kitchen and making Anne feel even more mortified since it was obvious her teacher had heard every word. “Let’s see if we can’t get you back on track, Ruby.”

And with a gentle hand, Ms. Stacy took Ruby and Jane back to the kitchen table and the rest of the students fell naturally back into their studying. For the next two hours, Anne poured all of her concentration into her revision and Gilbert did the same. They didn’t banter or flirt. In fact, they hardly spoke at all, though the lingering glances continued.

Finally, Ms. Stacy dismissed her students and wished them a lovely evening with their families. Just outside the front door of the quaint cottage, Anne lingered and waited for Gilbert who was the last to leave the house. She smiled at him and was about to say something when a too close echo cut her off.

“Come on, Anne!” Ruby called from the end of the drive, waving the redhead to join the rest of the girls on their walk home.

“I have to go,” Anne excused, giving a small sorry grin to Gilbert.

“Before you do,” Gilbert said, digging into his coat pocket and pulling out a leaflet which he handed to Anne. It was a poster announcing the arrival of Henrietta Edwards in Charlottetown. The suffragette was due to give a lecture at Victoria Hall on Queens’ campus the following Saturday. “I wondered if you’d like to go,” Gilbert said, biting the inside of his cheek as he waited for Anne to answer. “It looks like it will be really interesting. Mrs. Edwards is a pioneer. Did you know she helped found the Victoria Order of Nurses?”

“What’s that?” Anne asked, flattered and thrilled to see Gilbert so engaged. Watching his face light up as he spoke of his interests and passions was more than enough to have her heart fluttering and that familiar creeping tickle return. It was frustratingly amazing how she didn’t even need to touch him, or he her, for those feelings to rise to the surface.

“Come with me and find out,” he suggested cheekily, and Anne wanted terribly to kiss him.

“Anne! Hurry up!” Josie demanded, stamping on Anne’s impulsivity, at least for a stolen kiss.

Instead, Anne took her pen from her bag. She quickly grabbed Gilbert’s hand and scratched a message on his palm, her words following the graceful curve of his heart line before she recapped the pen and pressed it against his chest, forcing Gilbert to catch it when she moved away.

“I’ll want that back,” she promised, placing the leaflet in her bag and then turning to run after her girlfriends. Gilbert watched her go fondly, then laughed loud and clear when he looked down at his hand to see what message she’d left for him.

In Anne’s neat script, the word ‘tomorrow’ was tattooed to his skin like a promise...

* * *

“ ‘Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion’.”

“Dreary indeed,” Marilla commented, focused on her sewing. “And you claim this is your favourite story?”

“Oh yes!” Anne exclaimed, perched contently on the floor by the fire, a cushion under her stomach as she lay on the carpet, feet waving up and down as she read aloud from _Jane Eyre_.

Saturday evening saw the little Cuthbert family gathered in their parlour, dinner eaten and kitchen cleaned, and now a few hours together before all would retire to bed. At first they spoke of their day, Marilla’s trials with the cows and the latest town gossip she’d gotten from Mrs. Lynde. Mathew went on for an age about his radishes, proudly claiming that one in particular was growing so well that he hoped to enter it in the county fair’s large vegetable competition the following month. Anne regaled her parents with talk of her studies and the trails of revision, before finally asking if they’d allow her to read _Jane Eyre_ to them as neither Cuthbert sibling had ever heard the story. When Marilla consented (because when it came to Mathew, anything Anne asked was always answered with a ‘yes’) the redhead had gladly grabbed up her book and made herself comfortable as she started reading the tale of the resilient orphan girl who found herself caught in the heart of mystery and love.

“I suppose the story does start out quite glum,” Anne commented, fingertips tracing over the notes Gilbert had left in the margins about the possible symbolism of the red room. Anne looked forward to sharing her own interpretation of the colour symbolism used in _Jane Eyre_ , and merrily wondered if they might not talk about it next Saturday on a train bound for Charlottetown where they would attend Mrs. Edward’s lecture...

...where they would mingle with likeminded individuals, and explore Queens campus, and perhaps be able to ask Mrs. Edwards herself a question or two, and have tea, or even dinner in some lovely café near the sea. If there was time they could call on Cole and Aunt Jo, and if there wasn’t that was fine because they would certainly be back in Charlottetown another day. They could link arms, or hold hand, and even snatch a polite kiss or two (and after, they might dare to take some impolite kisses) before having to leave the city. They would ride the train home, sit side-by-side, and gaze out the window, or talk about their day, or perhaps even rest against the other’s shoulder before pulling into Bright River at the end of a phenomenal afternoon.

It could be like that.

Anne could see it all in her imagination, every detail from the lace on the cuffs of her dress to the salt and pepper tweed threads of Gilbert’s cap. When she closed her eyes she could hear the bustle of the Charlottetown crowds, and smell the minty perfume of Gilbert’s shaving soap, and feel the warmth if his hand clasped in hers. All of that splendid day existed in perfect clarity in the heart of Anne’s imagination, and it was the epitome of thrilling to think that her imaginings would be a reality someday quite soon.

“It has a happy ending,” Anne assured her mother, tucking her daydreams in a safe spot within her heart before finding her lost place on the page. “And I believe it’s the sad, scary, and lonely moments that make all the joyful ones so precious and luminescent. Don’t you think?”

“Suppose so,” Mathew agreed, rocking contently, drinking his tea and relaxing while listening to his daughter. “Keep going.”

Anne did not need further prompting. She read the rest of the chapter and two more afterwards before Marilla left to see to her evening ablutions, leaving just Mathew and Anne to absorb another chapter before a frantic knock at their front door jostled the two from their relaxed state.

“Hello?!”

“Is that Gilbert?” Mathew wondered, he and Anne rising from their reclined positions, Anne much quicker at heading for the sound of the voice.

“Gilbert?” she said, finding the boy walking across the front room, uncharacteristically rude as he hadn’t waited to be invited in and had left the front door wide open. “What’s wrong?”

“Mary,” he said, panting, and Anne realized that he was sweating, eyes large and wild as he looked at her. “It’s time.”

“Time?” Anne asked, stepping forward, wanting to take his hands in hers, to feel his racing pulse under her fingertips, but she refrained from the action when Mathew came up behind her.

“Gilbert? What brings you here?” the older man asked.

“Mary’s in labour,” Gilbert reported, panicked and glad as he said the words. “She’s going to have the baby tonight, and she’s asking for Anne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why won’t anyone let Anne and Gilbert just confess already?!
> 
> This was another monster of a chapter to write, especially when I was determined to pepper snippets of each day from Tuesday to Saturday and have not only a half-decent reason for why Anne and Gilbert couldn’t discuss their kiss, but also show some plot development as well as character relationships.
> 
> Because the one thing I really hope readers take away from this chapter is that even though they are toeing the line of platonic and romantic, Anne and Gilbert will always be best friends first. A fantastic T-E-A-M if you will 😉
> 
> I wanted to show that just because they’re kissing now doesn’t mean they’d stop being Anne and Gilbert. They still tease, and debate, and work well together. They’ll still be competitive, and have inside jokes, and drive all of Avonlea insane with their constant on-the-cusp-of-something-more flirting (except for Ruby; she only has eyes for Moody which makes her rather blind to matters that are obvious to the rest of her peers, lol). And, much like Anne’s Friday revelation, just because she is with Gilbert doesn’t mean that he will expect her to change and be anything other than herself, just as she would never ask him to change for her, making them true equals and the best lifemates that Anne could imagine.
> 
> But speaking of the Friday snippet, I only hope that readers took my trigger warning seriously. While the description of the assault might be considered tame, I wanted to ensure my readers knew I was tackling the Josie/Billy storyline from S3 (one of the best and most honestly handled storylines in all of S3 in my opinion) and that I wasn’t going to hold back.  
> AWAE has been inspiring in how it’s tackled misogyny, sexism, and the ever-classic, ever-infuriating ‘boys-will-be-boys’ mentality that has caused so much trouble and suffering in the world. That line from S2, ‘a skirt is not an invitation’, is too perfect and too heartbreaking in its shattering truth. I only hope my homage to it in this chapter did it justice, for I have so much respect for that line.
> 
> And now, for something completely different: 
> 
> Baby Lacroix is coming!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I’ve been very excited to get to this upcoming chapter of the story, waiting on pins and needles to get to it in my writing, and then finish it. SSSSOOOOO much is gonna happen in the next chapter it will make y’all dizzy, I swear!
> 
> So get ready!
> 
> Next Chapter: Baby Lacroix makes their debut, lives change drastically in a single night, and Anne and Gilbert continue not to talk, but they certainly get up to other things
> 
> Of course, I want to give special Valentine's kisses and hugs to the readers, commenters, kudos-ers, bookmarkers, subscribers, and all around supporters of this story. Cheers to you all!


	9. Uncle Gilby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away

_‘Dear Anne,_

_Remember to always love best those that need you the most…’_

* * *

“You’re sure?”

“Her waters have broken and the contractions are regular. It’s happening.”

“Oh, Gil!” Anne exclaimed, cupping her hands over her delirious smile. “Just give me a moment. I’ll be ready in minutes!”

“I’ll get Belle saddled for you.”

Anne nodded and dashed upstairs. She stopped by Marilla’s bedroom to tell her the good news before stampeding into her own chamber and collecting a few clean pinafores, some extra ribbons, and clean linens. Marilla met Anne on the landing with a satchel that had a jar of ginger, a few baby-sized knitted booties, and a quilt. Anne placed her own items in the sack and, after accepting a kiss to her brow for courage, hurried back to the front room.

“Mary’s having the baby,” she exclaimed to Mathew, the older man having not moved from where he’d stood when Gilbert delivered the message. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. It might not be until dinner time tomorrow!” she said as she quickly put on her jacket.

“For Mary’s sake let’s hope it’s a bit sooner,” Mathew joked. Anne smiled fondly and kissed her father on the cheek before patting his hand.

“Promise you won’t sneak any chapters of _Jane Eyre_ until I get back?” she requested.

“I promise,” Mathew said, giving Anne’s hand a playful shake, always eager to humour his daughter. She chuckled and started for the door, but in a rapid flurry she turned back to him, the setting sun casting an ethereal orange light behind her, her red braids glowing as if shroud in a golden halo.

“Oh Mathew!” Anne exclaimed, so excited she was about to jump out of her skin. “Take a good long look at me. Remember every detail, because when you see me next I’ll be a different ‘Anne’. I’ll be a godmother!”

“Right you are,” Mathew agreed, his heart near to bursting with pride for the young woman his sweet Anne was becoming. He truly could not wait to see what other ‘Annes' she would grow to be.

“And don’t worry too much,” she requested. “I promise to tell you everything when I get back.”

“I’ll be here.”

And with those parting words and a kiss blown to him from the tips of her fingers, Anne dashed out the door and headed for the stables. Beau was waiting obediently for his master just outside the stable doors, a buggy hitched to his sturdy body. Anne stopped to scratch the steed’s muzzle and fed him a handful of hay before crossing the stable’s threshold. Inside, Gilbert had taken Belle from her stall and was just finishing tightening the saddle along the mare’s back.

“When did her waters break?” Anne asked.

“Not even an hour ago,” Gilbert replied, cupping his hands and encouraging Anne to step in them so he could help her mount the horse. “I’m a little worried. The baby’s early.”

“Too early?” Anne wondered.

“I can’t say.”

“Are you going for Dr. Ward, then?” she asked, accepting Gilbert’s help in mounting the horse.

She was momentarily occupied with settling herself into the saddle and never noticed her skirt had risen high over her thighs until she felt Gilbert tug the hem down to just above her knee while his free hand cupped securely around her dainty ankle. The touch was electric and it made Anne’s breath quiver. He clearly heard her gasp because he smiled, a distractingly roguish grin that made him appear like a cheeky pixie, especially with the vibrant tangerine light from the low setting sun casting his handsome face in a glow that was truly magical. It reminded Anne of when they’d last sequestered themselves in Hester’s Garden, and she resolved that they should revisit that enchanted meadow as soon as possible.

“I’m fetching a midwife from Glen St. Mary,” Gilbert reported, releasing Anne’s ankle. “The last train left for Charlottetown a few hours ago and it would take until tomorrow to ride there and back with Dr. Ward. He recommended this midwife and she’s much closer.”

“What’s her name?”

“Susan Baker.”

“And how long do you think you’ll be?”

“Maybe four hours?”

“Well, safe journey, then,” Anne said sincerely, smiling down on her best friend, determined to remember how dashing he looked at that exact second.

With a grace she’d only ever seen when he danced, Gilbert reached for Anne’s hand and brought it to his mouth where he placed a firm and meaningful kiss across her knuckles. When his lips released her skin, he stared at the freckled hand in his for a moment, as if he were admiring a perfect pearl, before raising his eyes back to Anne. She’d been holding her breath throughout the moment, embarrassed but equally delighted to admit that she felt like swooning at the romantic gesture that was so much better than anything she’d read in one of her novels.

“You too,” he said at last, winking at her before releasing her hand and leaving to unhitch Beau and start for the Glen. Anne led Belle to trot beside Gilbert down the drive, the pair only breaking off at harried speeds once they’d separated at the gate, each focused on their desperate missions.

At the breakneck pace she urged Belle on, it took Anne less than ten minutes to reach the Blythe-Lacroix homestead.

Every window in the farmhouse had a candle glowing against the glass. Looking to the upstairs Anne could see a bobbing shadow she suspected was Bash casting back and forth along the walls. Anne supposed the poor man must be very worried and resolved to help him as much as she intended to help Mary. Dismounting Belle, she was diligent in hitching her mare securely near the side door, making sure she left a bucket of water nearby, and then Anne was rushing into the house, not bothering to knock.

“Mary! Bash! I’m here!” she called, hurrying to the couple’s bedroom. “Alright, Mary?” she asked, seeing the woman propped up against the brass headboard with what looked to be every pillow in the house.

“As alright as can be expected,” Mary quipped back. She was already sweating from the pain of the contractions, blankets thrown off her body and the hem of her nightgown pulled up to her knees.

“Let’s open the windows,” Anne said. “And Bash, I’ll need you to do a few things for us.”

“Anything,” the Trinidadian said from his perch at the foot of the bed, eager to be useful when all he’d felt for the last hour was a hopeless mess while his wife cried and groaned and dug her nails into his hand when the pain was too terrible.

“Boil some water. Lots of it. At least four kettles and two small tubs and bring them here. Brew some ginger tea, and we should have a pitcher of water, too. More oil for the laps will help, especially if we’re in for an all-nighter. We’ll need string or twine, and scissors, but make sure you’ve sterilized them with alcohol first. Is the cradle ready?”

“We haven’t made it up,” Bash answered, concentrating on the sixteen-year old’s instructions.

“Then hop to it,” Anne commanded gently, taking the quilt from her satchel and tossing it to the flustered man. Bash did as he was told, glad for the chores, and Anne and Mary shared a little chuckle at the man’s nervous exit. “That should keep him occupied for a bit,” Anne said.

“Let’s hope,” Mary replied, smiling despite her discomfort. “I love him dearly, but he is so helpless right now, and I’ve got other things on my mind than my husband’s shattered nerves.”

“He’s just excited,” Anne answered, rolling up her sleeves and putting a clean pinafore on. “Truly, though, how are you?” she asked as she opened the window.

“It feels like I remember,” Mary huffed, releasing a happy hum when the cool air wafted over her body, a temporary balm to the long night ahead. “We’ve been timing the contractions since they started after dinner. Here.”

Mary pointed to a piece of paper on her nightstand. Anne moved towards it, undoing her twin braids as she went and securing her hair in a low ponytail that rested snuggly at the base of her neck (it would better stay out of her way when the real struggle of labour began) and she smiled when she noticed they’d been using Gilbert’s watch to time the contractions. Running the tip of her finger over the cool glass face of the timepiece, Anne quickly reviewed the paper.

“I’m guessing this is Gilbert’s doing?” she said, trying to sound sarcastic when really she was quite impressed.

Her grey eyes scanned over the chart that was drawn on the scrap paper. There was a column to record the time when a contraction started, a column for the time when it ended, one to mark the time between contractions and another listing the intensity of the pain. Reviewing the notes, Anne could practically hear Gilbert in her mind, claiming he was being efficient and practical. She didn’t disagree, even if she personally felt that charts were low on the spectrum of imagination.

“That’s our dear Doc,” Mary said lightly, her smile lasting only a moment before morphing into a cringe. “It’s another one!”

Anne reached for Mary’s hand, holding it just as tightly as the woman held hers. Anne counted the seconds, darting her attention between the hands on the watch and the hard grimace of pain on Mary’s face.

“Breathe,” Anne said, hoping she sounded soothing. “Don’t forget to breathe.” Mary didn’t answer, but Anne noticed she started taking little sips of air through her clenched teeth, finally unleashing a mighty roar when the worst of the contraction crested. Still holding her friend’s hand, Anne looked down at the pocket watch. “Seventy-six seconds,” she said, following Gilbert’s table and adding another row of data to his chart. “Do you know how far you’re dilated?”

“I think Gilbert was too shy to ask,” Mary joked, wincing through her aches, but the quip eased Anne’s own nerves as the redhead set to work.

First she soaked a cloth in fresh water from the basin and dabbed at Mary’s heated brow, rubbing the damp cotton over her neck and face, arms and legs. While Mary changed into a fresh nightgown Anne changed the bed linens and pillowcases, fluffing everything into freshness before laying down additional layers of linen to protect the mattress from the inevitable mess and then helping Mary into a comfortable position on the bed. Once situated, Anne then politely peeked under her friend’s gown to check her dilation progress.

Using her fingers to measure, Anne suspected Mary was nearly at the half-way point, meaning it would be at least another four to six hours before she could start pushing.

“But Mrs. Baker will know better,” Anne said, lowering the gown and patting one of Mary’s raised knees.

“They’re early, you know,” Mary said, hands running worriedly over her belly and her dark eyes glassy as she looked over at Anne.

“Gilbert said that,” Anne agreed, “but timing is so often inaccurate in these matters. Dr. Ward could have been wrong on the due date.”

“Maybe…” Mary breathed, but she did not sound convinced. “Anne, would you tell me one of your stories?”

And because there were worry lines starting to take root along the pained ones at the corners of Mary’s eyes, Anne launched into one of her fanciful tales with dramatic panache.

“It’s about a secret garden,” she began, a story of a pixie village in the middle of a forgotten garden where two lovers would meet spilling forth from her imagination.

For hours Anne birthed her own dear child, the tale of an enchanted pixies’ hollow, giving life to characters she named ‘Wick’ and ‘Beeswax’ and ‘Doily’ inspired by items she spotted on Mary’s dresser, describing their toadstool houses, and field mice friends, and moonshine magic as the mischievous Faye had many misadventures in an orchard not unlike the one beyond the window of Mary’s bedroom. There were many pauses in the impromptu tale, Anne’s words having to wait when Mary had another contraction (they were lasting longer and coming more frequently), or to give Bash another time-eating chore so he kept his nerves away from his wife. Eventually, the soon-to-be-father did settle enough to listen to the story with the same interested attention as Mary, the man slipping into the bed with his wife, making a place for himself behind her so she could rest in the shelter of his arms, the exhausted woman sighing when he lazily ran a damp cloth across the back of her neck.

Telling the tale was a balm to the intensifying labour, keeping both Mary and Bash at ease while working a wonder at keeping Anne focused. If she was too absorbed in telling a fairy tale, she couldn’t dwell on her own encroaching memories of the last time she’d been in a birthing room.

Out of the seven children Anne had nursed, she’d only ever witnessed the birth of three.

The first she could barely recall with any clarity, like looking out a window through a dark curtain; able to make out shapes vague enough to know you were looking outside, but unable to truly comprehend what lay before you. She knew she must have been very young at that first birth and she knew she’d been frightened because the woman (girl?) wouldn’t stop thrashing. She remembered the smell of iron (blood?) and salt (tears?), and the tearing of cotton sheets, and the gurgling of boiling water, and the sting of being kicked in the face as she’d tried to hold open one of the legs of the labouring woman (girl?...something in-between?) during those agonizing minutes before she’d heard the alarming first cry of new life.

It was from that first encounter with birth that Anne had learned babies came from a woman’s body, and about pushing them out, and breathing through the pain, and how to count in-between each contraction, and what was too much blood, and that women suffered in labour because they were sinful, wicked things, deserving of their trials for having loose morals.

Then there’d been Mrs. Hammond’s delivery of her third, and final, set of twins. The recollections of that labour were crystal clear. Those two days when the woman had cursed and cried and threw everything she could reach at Anne were like monsters hiding in the dark, waiting to pounce on the redhead and swallow her whole when she least expected.

She remembered that Mr. Hammond had been gone for the whole labour (out on a bender Mrs. Hammond had sneered), too hungover to even hold his new sons when he finally returned home almost a week later. Anne had been eleven then and was so like a mother to the other Hammond children that they’d often called her ‘Ma’, though perhaps they did that because Mrs. Hammond would cuff Anne on the rump with a wooden spoon every time they did, and it always made them laugh their terrible, spiteful chuckles.

There’d been no midwife or doctor sent for when Mrs. Hammond’s waters broke because there was no money to pay them. There’d been only Anne, the child having to follow the screeching instructions of Mrs. Hammond who’d had so many babies by then that labouring was old hat to her. It was during those long two days that Anne learned how to measure proper dilation, and that labouring women’s bodies ran hot like a stove, and that it was best to let the pregnant woman move and writhe and do whatever they could to get comfortable as they prepared to push. She learned how to tie off and cut an umbilical cord, and how to clean a newborn, and swaddle them tight, and that milk came from a woman’s breasts to feed babies until they fell asleep gumming at tender nipples.

And as Anne continued to tell Bash and Mary about the three mischievous pixies, she took those lessons (but not the feelings; _never_ the feelings) from those births and put them into practice. When Mary wanted to walk, Anne supported her as they paced up and down the halls. When Mary had a contraction, Anne counted, keeping time with Gilbert’s watch, noting with each dropped second between the pains that Mary’s body was getting closer to begin the final stage of labour. And when Bash would excuse himself to get more drinking water, Anne would sneak another look at Mary’s dilation, becoming both excited and anxious every time she had to add another finger to her count.

It was dark out by the time the trio heard Gilbert coming up the drive, the buggy’s squeaky wheel giving his arrival away. All three breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief and Anne stood to greet the midwife when she came down the hall, politely knocking on the frame of the open door.

“You must be Mrs. Baker,” Anne greeted gladly, moving towards the short, plump woman with an outstretched hand.

“Aye,” Mrs. Baker said, her voice carrying a melodic Irish accent.

She was not a very old woman, perhaps just entering her middle age. She had a jolly looking face that was all roundness much like the rest of her, with eyes as green as clovers and brown hair she’d pulled back into a severe bun much the same way Marilla styled hers. Her hand was solid and firm as it shook Anne’s in a no-nonsense grip, and her smile was pleasant. Anne determined then and there that she liked Susan Baker very much. 

“And you’re Anne with an ‘e’, no doubt. The colour of your hair is exactly as the Young Doctor described,” Mrs. Baker observed as she entered the bedroom and took in the setting.

“Young Doctor? You mean Gilbert?” Mary asked and Mrs. Baker nodded.

“Let me guess: did he call me ‘carrots’?” Anne wondered sardonically, offering Mrs. Baker a fresh pinafore to cover her simple mustard dress. Mrs. Baker smiled at Anne with twinkling green eyes and it was all the confirmation the sixteen-year old needed. She scoffed as she finished fastening the pinafore for Mrs. Baker before busying herself with fiddling with the blankets at the end of the bed.

“We’re very happy to have you here, Mrs. Baker,” Bash said, still supporting Mary against his chest.

“Aye, I imagine you are,” the midwife replied, rolling up her sleeves. “You must be Mr. Bash, meaning you are Miss Mary.”

“Thank you so much for coming to help,” Mary said, her gratitude cut off as another contraction had her gritting her teeth and leaning heavily against Bash. Mrs. Baker watched Mary with a keen eye, sweeping over the woman’s taut frame and calculating what needed to be done to prepare for the baby.

“The dilation is about seven centimetres I think,” Anne reported, coming to stand next to the woman.

“And the contractions?”

“Just a moment,” Anne said, referring to the chart on the bedside table. “She’s had a dozen in the last hour-an-a-half, all over a minute long.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Baker replied, giving Bash and Mary a reassuring smile. “It’s all looking well. And I can see you’ve been left in quite capable hands with the Mrs. Young Doctor here.”

“Oh!” Anne sputtered, fretting a bit giddily at Mrs. Baker’s assumption. “I’m not…that is, Gilbert and I aren’t…I’m going to be a teacher!” Anne exclaimed for lack of any other excuse to say.

“And a fine profession that is, but it won’t do a spot of good here,” Mrs. Baker instructed. “Now, Mrs. Doctor-Dear, see that you continue timing those contractions, and Miss Mary, we’ll have your babe in your arms before morning.”

* * *

Gilbert couldn’t take it.

For hours he’d languished downstairs, forbidden from even setting a toe on the second floor landing and it was difficult to refrain when every one of Mary’s cries and groans seemed to shake the ceiling over his head. Reading was fruitless, as was doing homework or exam revision. He couldn’t hope to concentrate, not when his family was struggling. Gilbert was an innate caregiver, compulsive in his need to help. Surely, that quality is what led him to pursuing medicine, but now it felt like it was strangling him. He knew Mary was in good hands, that Bash, Anne and Mrs. Baker would keep her and the baby as safe as they could, but every time Mary cried out it took all of Gilbert’s will not to go running to the birthing room and demand to be made useful. 

Finally, a little after midnight Gilbert had to leave the house, lantern in one hand and a book in the other. Despite the chill and the isolating nothingness of the inky dark, Gilbert kept focused and made his way to the Blythe graveyard. He set himself comfortably on the bench before the stones that stood in memoriam for the many members of his family that had shed their mortal coil and started running his calloused fingertips over the well loved cover of _Leaves of Grass_.

Gilbert often read Walt Whitman to his father’s grave. Sometimes he did it because he was happy, sometimes because he was sad, and sometimes because he was lonely. Always he read from _Leaves of Grass_ and always he’d read the ‘Song of the Open Road’ in and amongst other poems. Turning the book over and over in his hands, tickling his palm against frayed fibers peeking out from the binding, strumming the pages against his thumb, tracing along the cigarette burns Elijah had left on the cover the night he’d run away, Gilbert hoped he might find solace in his father’s favourite words. Reading from the book never failed to leave Gilbert feeling close to his father, but somehow the eighteen-year old knew that another man’s words wouldn’t ease his chaotic thoughts this night.

He'd have to use his own.

“How did you do it, dad?” Gilbert asked of the cold grey stone. “Mary isn’t even my wife and yet I’m going mad every time –” his words were cut off by the pained cry that echoed from his home. It certainly wasn’t as pronounced as when he’d been sequestered inside, but it still carried over the field to the little graveyard and rattled Gilbert to his very core.

Gilbert had never doubted his father’s resilience.

As a babe, he’d had no choice but to rely completely on John Blythe for sustenance, and shelter, and love. As a little boy, he’d believed his father to be a giant among men, a farmer and caregiver, world-traveller and soldier, a teacher, father and mother both to a child who didn’t understand that most children had two parents. As a boy caught in-between childhood and adulthood, Gilbert had admired his father as he fought hard to live, for the orchard, and his son, and the life he loved so well. Even when he’d finally passed, Gilbert did not blame his father for giving in to the peace and tranquility of death, not when he knew how strong the man was, how he’d pushed himself to live as long as possible, just long enough for his son to not be left helpless.

He’d taught Gilbert how to look at the world and people with wonder and open arms, showed him how to shoe a horse, plant a garden, brew tea, and mend socks. He encouraged Gilbert’s love of school, of learning, and fed his passion for knowledge. He told Gilbert that he could be anything he wanted so long as he was willing to put the hard work in.

John Blythe had been a strong man, but Gilbert wasn’t sure he’d ever understood just how strong his father was until this moment. This night, as he listened to the woman that was as dear to him as a sister cry and ache and labour to bring her baby into the world, Gilbert felt such fear that it was as if the icy clutches of his dark, mysterious Maker were cupping his throbbing heart in His unforgiving hand.

What if Mary died?

It was a fear Gilbert hadn’t dared utter, but it had been a burden he’d carried since the day Mary had announced her pregnancy. The idea haunted him, his lungs ceasing every time he looked at the little cameo of his mother that rested on his bedside table and he was reminded that _she_ had died in childbirth; _his_ childbirth. Margaret Blythe was gone from the world eighteen years, the same number of years Gilbert had been living, because she’d died in the same hour he was born, and no matter how many times Gilbert tried to assure himself that Mary’s labour would be different, he couldn’t shake the dread.

What would he do if Mary died? What would Bash do? And the baby? Would it live? Would it die?

He ran his fingers through his curls, playing one dark fantasy after another in his restless imagination, of Mary dying and Bash being left a widower father, or of the baby dying and Mary and Bash both sinking down into a foggy depression of which nothing could drag them up. He thought of Mary dying and the baby living, of how he would hold his niece or nephew and have to find a way to explain that the guilt was now a part of them, that they would live with the understanding that they had killed their mother, that they would have to find a way to accept the crime, and how they might spend their whole life trying to atone for it.

And it wouldn’t matter that you were the brightest student in class, or the best liked by your peers, or a nurturing caregiver, or a good Christian, or that you’d been willing to put your dreams on a shelf to collect dust in order to fulfill a duty to the person you felt you owed everything to, not just because they’d raised you, but because you were the reason the love of their life was dead and gone. In the end, your mother would still be an angel in heaven, and you would be left on earth to live, and toil, and ache, and wonder if she hated you for being the cause of her demise, or if she had loved you, even for the few moments you shared together.

The wondering would be your eternal shadow.

There was a great chasm of feelings, dark and spoiled, thick and unforgiving, that weighed heavy in Gilbert Blythe’s heart. He didn’t dwell on them because he truly was not the kind of person that cared to wallow or brood. But he did reflect on them from time to time, tried to organize them and give them proper names, hoping to alleviate the blame he couldn’t help carrying. Time and experience had dulled the shame some, but Gilbert had long ago accepted that it was all a part of who he was. It was how he used those feelings – how he allowed those feelings to use him – that made the difference.

And normally, Gilbert was easily able to sort his emotions out, but Mary’s screams seemed to hold a powerful sway over those muddled thoughts. It was as if there was a printing press wedged under his ribs, and each of Mary’s cries tugged at the devil’s tail, squeezing the stone plates tighter around his heart.

“How does any man survive it?” he wondered aloud. “I understand the want…how desire…to be close to the woman you love is a feeling as heady as the tide, but when the inevitable outcome can lead to this I don’t know that I could…” Gilbert licked his lips and rubbed his palms together, slowly, contemplative, seeking to understand. “I think I love Anne.”

Saying the words for the first time was enough to allow the young man a short reprieve from the painful pressing in his chest.

“I think I really love her, dad. I think about her all day, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and I dream about her, too. There’s… _those_ dreams, but I have others. I dream of us going to college together, her getting her teacher’s licence and me my medical. I see us in cities big and small, at suffragette rallies, and science conferences, doing research in labs, writing for papers, shaping the world around us to the way we hope it can be.

“I dream of a home…a house by the sea with wildflowers in the garden. There’s a fire keeping every room warm, and a cat and dog, and family and friends coming and going, and Anne! Anne is there in that house, waving at me, beckoning me home and I go to her like a pilgrim. And sometimes I dream of little feet running up and down the halls in this house of dreams…but to see those children Anne would have to endure so much pain and she might…I don’t think I could do it; I don’t think I’d survive. I’m not strong like you, dad.”

The wind rustled across the field then and caressed his brow, and a faint sweet whisper that seemingly said ‘ _you are’_ curled across Gilbert’s body. He sighed in answer, knowing he was being both rational and irrational all at once.

He was sure he loved Anne.

It was a love that was devout, and gentle, and sincere, but it was also a love filled with a desire to hold her close and feel her body mold with his…to become one together. Gilbert wanted to make love to Anne on a bed of flowers, with nothing but the sun to warm their bodies and Anne’s glorious red hair fanned out beneath him, over him, all around him, taking and giving pleasure until their cries of ecstasy were the only music for miles.

It was a dream as dear to him as the one of the house, and he was desperate to see it come true someday. And if it were to come true, it would mean that the risk – the chance of getting Anne pregnant – was a reality he would simply have to strive to accept and prepare for. At least he had years before he’d see that day; plenty of time to come to terms with the idea and all the possibilities, good and bad.

But he needed to focus on the good, especially now.

And so for a time, Gilbert talked to his father, discussing all the things he hoped to do with his niece or nephew. He found himself fondly imagining helping the little one pick their first strawberry apple, teaching them to swim, and fish, and ride a horse. He could envision helping with homework, and racing through the orchard, and laughing merrily while Bash and Mary would do polkas in the parlour. There would be birthdays, and Christmases, and summers to look forward to, with all of them together. Just one big happy family, the one Gilbert had found for himself, the one he was adding to all the time…the one that had a chair next to his own at the table, reserved for a special spirited redhead.

When the night’s chill was finally too much, Gilbert ventured back in the house.

Mary was still moaning in pain, Mrs. Baker’s voice was still giving firm instructions, and the constant steady thump of pacing footfalls must belong to Anne, the girl going to and fro, fetching what was needed before resuming her restless moving as the night dragged on and Baby Lacroix continued to hold off their debut. Gilbert decided it was best to keep busy, and so he fiddled with a few chores as the hours dragged and the sounds from upstairs went on and on.

The noise was so monstrously constant that its silence was utterly horrifying.

Gilbert had just come from the barn, having emptied the slop buckets in the pigs’ trough and milked Bonnie. He returned inside and was greeted by an eerily quiet homestead, with no crying, or pacing, or speaking. All was still, as if a ghost had settled its arms around the house, and for several painful moments Gilbert was petrified. His whole body seized, muscles becoming like iron, veins like lead. His heart didn’t beat, and his lungs didn’t breathe, and his brain didn’t think. He was a statue, caught in purgatory, waiting for judgment and fearing damnation.

And then he heard a baby cry.

The shrill little shriek was the most unhappy squawk Gilbert had ever heard in his life, and he felt a smile break across his face. He didn’t even realize he was laughing so hard he was crying until he sat at the kitchen table and pressed the heel of his palms against his wet eyes.

The baby was alive.

And from the sounds of the cheers coming from upstairs, all expressed in a tone of felicitations, Mary was alive, too.

Mother and child were safe. Gilbert’s family was still whole. It was a miracle.

Slouched at the table, Gilbert kept his eyes closed, face resting in his cupped palms, and started saying one grateful silent prayer after another, the familiar words of the Our Father pacifying to his rattled spirit, soothing him as if he were sinking into a bed of feathers

“Gilbert?”

Jolting upright, Gilbert blinked the tears out of his eyes, startled that he’d managed to doze off, even for a few minutes. On instinct, he reached for the hand cupping his shoulder, his palm touching clean, damp skin. It was Anne’s hand on him, Anne’s voice that roused him, and Anne’s eyes that were looking down on him with crystalline happiness.

“Mary?” he asked.

“She wanted me to let you know that there’s a certain young gentleman that’s just arrived. He hasn’t brought much luggage, but it seems evident that he means to stay for quite some time.”

“A young gentleman?” Gilbert echoed, a smile illuminating his face in the most perfect expression of joy. With a hoot, the eighteen-year old was on his feet and pulling Anne tight to his body, squishing her against his chest as every agony and elation emanated from his soul in rippling waves. “She and the baby are well?”

“They’re perfect,” Anne assured, her face tucked into Gilbert’s neck, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. “Mrs. Baker says the birth was like clockwork. Mary is fine and the baby…oh! Gilbert he’s so darling! A sweet face – even when protesting his introduction to the world – with a button nose and head covered in black downy hair. His fingers and toes are too wonderful and Mrs. Baker says he has the most even set of ears she’s ever seen.”

“So I have a nephew,” Gilbert sighed, pressing his face into Anne’s loosely knotted hair, smelling soap and sweat among the tresses and thinking it the most splendid perfume.

“You’re an uncle now!” Anne exclaimed in congratulations, taking a small step back so she could look Gilbert in the eye, but not leave his embrace.

“And you’re a godmother,” he replied, unable to keep from smiling as he admired Anne, hazel eyes following the soft contours of her face, counting the freckles on her nose, noting the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and dark circles under her eyes, and how there were still beads of sweat puckering at her temples. Rather on instinct, Gilbert pressed his lips to Anne’s, a quick, hard peck, one that expressed his joy and the rush of meeting the end of such an arduous night.

Anne returned the kiss and her eyes were still closed when Gilbert pulled away to bask in how wonderful it was to know his family was safe and happy under one roof and the girl of his dreams was in his arms. Slowly, Anne blinked her eyes open, looking at Gilbert with a deliberate admiration, silver gaze following the line of his jaw, and shape of his nose, and arch of his brows, leaving a trail of molten gold in her wake.

There was a fire burning hot in the look she gave him, Gilbert’s breath coming hard and low as if he’d just swam the length of the Northumberland Strait. Anne’s own breath fell in sync with his, her chest heaving up and down, her skin pink in the dim lantern light. Something like static felt as if it were charging in the air, cocooning the two in a world all their own.

Slowly, Anne raised a hand and cupped Gilbert’s jaw. He rested against her palm, nearly groaning at the caress. He kept his eyes open wide and locked with hers as he felt her fingers splay against his cheek and drag sensuously down his jaw until her thumb ( _what a clever thumb!_ ) hooked over his chin and brushed his bottom lip. It was as if an electrical charge zapped through his body and Gilbert felt his whole soul coil tightly with want.

“Gil…”

And then he snapped.

He lunged for Anne and took her mouth with his in a kiss that was hungry for every kiss they’d been denied since the last. The force of his embrace had Anne’s head falling back, but Gilbert was quick to catch her neck, cupping her head so he could angle her to exactly the perfect place, her lips slanting over his as a wanton moan left her throat.

She kept her one hand against his face, loving how his skin felt hot on hers, content to trace the chin she found so splendid. Her other hand trailed first to his shoulder, finding the muscles hidden there, squeezing and massaging, before slowly dragging down across his collarbones and coming to rest on his chest. It heaved with each breath he took, and when Anne scratched at the firm pectoral – feeling a pebble against her fingertips she’d only later realize was a hardened nipple – Gilbert let loose a moan that was more like a growl and he started stepping forward, making her take step after little rapid step back until her rear struck the wall.

Gilbert’s hand at her head stopped her from banging it on the hard wood, but she let out a startled gasp all the same, surprised by the wildness and even more astonished when Gilbert took advantage of her quick intake and slipped his tongue into the wet waiting cavern of her mouth. As his tongue touched hers, sweeping across the curious muscle and winding over the planes of her teeth, Anne was lost.

She was being devoured by Gilbert Blythe and was happy to let him have her.

The tickle was back, stretching across her body in a long, never-ending, marvellous and vexing tingle, making her hot and eager and ready for more of him. More of Gilbert.

“Is this…” he uttered against her lips when they parted for the briefest moment. “Anne, do you want me to –”

Anne threw her arms around Gilbert’s neck, pulling him so close their chests were heaving against one another. She mouthed ‘yes’ against his lips, only allowing a single sweet inhale before she took Gilbert’s mouth with hers, taking her time with her tongue as she traced his lips, learned the true taste of him (sweet; Gilbert Blythe tasted sweet) and boldly demanding he allow her the same liberties she’d permitted him.

Gilbert was all too happy to let Anne in, opening his mouth and humming as he felt her clever little tongue invade him; a part of her body within his and he was heady with the sensation. Leaving her hair, the fiery coils seeming to pull against his finger and demand they remain entangled in their beauty, Gilbert moved his arms to Anne’s back. He spread his fingers wide as he caressed her lithe frame, feeling her heart beat as fast as his, and it sent such a thrill through him that he stepped forward, not an inch of space left between their bodies, and pushed his thigh between her legs.

“Gilbert!”

It was Bash yelling from upstairs. The call was jarring, like when a train came to a sudden halt and jolted you forward before slamming you back against your seat.

Though not with a harried immediacy, Gilbert and Anne did break their kiss, lips barely brushing when they parted, breathing heavy as the world around them pulled them back into reality. A reality where it was barely dawn, they were sequestered in the Blythe-Lacroix kitchen, Mary had just given birth to a son, and Anne’s hands were fisted in Gilbert’s curls while his own were splayed across her hips and his thigh had her pinned to the wall.

He could feel every soft curve of her body against him, her breasts heaving as she gulped at the air, her hips snug in his palms, and a heat he knew was as forbidden as it was alluring hidden in the layers of her dress and petticoats where his thigh was pressed intimately against her.

“Gilbert?! Did you hear me you mook?”

“Yes!” he called to his brother, closing his eyes so he could breathe in the bouquet that was Anne, a spice that was filled with imagination, and adventure, and adversity, and strength. He wanted to remember this moment forever, every last detail.

“Well don’t be lollygagging. I want my son to meet his Uncle Gilby.”

The nickname was the cold water needed to neutralize the situation.

Anne started laughing so hard she snorted, and Gilbert finally took a step back, letting the girl in his arms have some space, but still keeping her in his embrace. He let her chuckle for a long time before taking one more sweet kiss from her, snickering himself when she continued to chortle, and then he dropped his arms from her and stepped away.

“Go on,” Anne encouraged. “You’ll love him at first sight.”

“I should get you home,” Gilbert said.

“Nonsense. I can get my own self home.”

“But it’s dark –”

“I’ve asked you before not to contradict me,” Anne retaliated lightly, reaching for her coat, Gilbert moving swiftly to help her put it on, the gesture gentlemanly and earning him a quick kiss to the cheek. “Be with your family now. I’ll still be around later.”

“We still need to talk,” Gilbert said, making Anne smile before she cupped his face and kissed him again, taking her time with nibbling his bottom lip before moving away.

“Later,” she promised, letting herself out and unhitching Belle.

“Anne?” Gilbert asked, stepping out on the porch. “Can…can I…may I walk with you to church tomorr…today?”

Using the hitching post, Anne hoisted herself up on Belle’s back and looked at Gilbert with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Yes.”

“And may I sit with you during the service?” he asked.

“You usually do.”

“And after, what if we both started walking in the same direction? To Hester’s Garden? Or the Ruins? Or even to Green Gables?”

“Well, we have been known to occasionally walk in the same direction from time to time,” Anne answered jokingly. “I suppose if we both ended up walking – quite independently of course – towards Green Gables, with a detour to Hester’s Garden, that would be fine.”

Gilbert’s smile was a beautiful thing, especially in the slate blue mist of morning twilight; it was like seeing a sun before the dawn, for it certainly warmed Anne with its radiance, as much as any sunrise would.

“And maybe when we got there,” Gilbert continued, face awash in adoration and trembling with vulnerable hope, “perhaps we could talk to Mathew and Marilla?”

He held his breath, his heart beating crazily in his chest as he was sure his soul left his body as he waited for Anne to give her answer. He knew she’d understand what he was asking, what the implication of approaching her parents would mean for them, and it was remarkable he’d found the gumption to broach the subject when he and Anne still hadn’t managed to do the same between each other. Still, he had to ask. He had to know.

And he did. When Anne smiled at him, he knew her words before she ever gave them life.

“That sounds like a perfectly glorious afternoon, Gil.”

“Really?” he exclaimed, almost laughing in relief. “You…you’d be alright with that?”

Urging Belle close to the house, Gilbert left the porch and met Anne halfway, leaning against the mare and rising up on his toes when Anne bent down, nearly falling out of her saddle to give him one more kiss. A long, soft peck that would keep him warm for hours.

“I would be rapturous,” she confessed, rubbing her nose along his, a silly, simple caress that made Gilbert feel as if his whole being was awash in butterflies. “See you later.”

“See you later.”

While Gilbert removed himself to his house and bounded joyfully up the stairs to hold his nephew for the first time, Anne hurried Belle across the fields of Avonlea, taking the long way back to Green Gables. Over meadows and grasslands, and long rolling pastures, Anne raced the sunrise. Her hair came loose as she rode on, her ribbon lost to the air just as her red tresses were now slaves of the wind, rippling behind her like a scarlet wave. She laughed at the pink sky, at the thrill of knowing new life was greeting the day, that she’d helped bring that new life forth, and that those she loved most were well and safe.

When Green Gables was finally in sight, Anne slowed Belle down and admired her homestead the way one would admire a great artwork. She took in the pastoral peace of the white house with green roof set amongst rolling fields in the midst of early growth; the family garden filled with potatoes, and radishes, and green beans, keeping their table and stomachs full; the corn fields with its neat rows of budding stems reaching for the sky, then the waving wheat stalks, the resilient alfalfa, and finally the three neat rows of apple trees blushing with hundreds of blossoms. The Snow Queen resided over all, of course, matriarch of this fine, flourishing kingdom. It made Anne’s heart sing to belong to this scenic court, a humble noblewoman of the house Shirley-Cuthbert privileged to count herself among the Snow Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

Anne dawdled in the stable as she unsaddled Belle, taking her time as she combed the mare, then Butterscotch, feeding them oats and hay and speaking poetry of the joy of babies and long trials finally ended. When she left the horses to their breakfast and headed back to the house, she spotted Marilla standing on the porch.

It was odd to see the woman up so very early, but Anne was brimming with such gladness that she thought nothing of it, only about how much she wanted to share the Lacroixs’ good news. Eagerly, Anne rushed to her mother, never noticing that Marilla wasn’t dressed, a shawl all she had thrown over her nightgown, her feet bare on the porch, and her hair laying loose about her shoulders.

“Oh Marilla!” Anne exclaimed, spinning like a ballerina, “Mary’s had a son! A beautiful, healthy little boy with ten toes and ten fingers and a head of hair as dark and curly as Bash’s. She was so brave, and Bash stayed with her through the whole labour – I’ve never known a father to do that before and I think it’s simply marvellous; Mary seemed able to better cope with it all with her husband in the room to support her – and Mrs. Baker is a wonder! I can understand why Dr. Ward recommended her because she could practically count every beat of the labour to near perfect precision.

“Mary is doing well, too, and Mrs. Baker will be staying at the orchard until Dr. Ward can be sent for to give mother and child a proper examination, so I have every confidence Mary and the baby are in good, professional hands.

“I think Bash cried more than Mary and his son put together when he was able to hold Baby Lacroix. And before you say a word I am not being facetious; they haven’t settled on a name yet so until then, he is baptized as Baby Lacroix. And I am so pleased! There isn’t even a speck of disappointment that he is not the Cordelia I imagined, because I’ve realized he can be so much more! He can be a Bartholomew, or Roderick, or even a Leopold!

“I left before Gilbert got to see the little joy, but he was tickled pink when I told him all was well and he was an uncle. Can you believe that? Gilbert an uncle! And me a godmother! Are we both really so mature that we can be given such titles? How strange it is that time seems to catch us unawares in moments of great happiness.

“Oh, don’t cry Marilla. I know it’s overwhelming, I cried, too, but it’s all truly too splendid to shed tears over. Even joyous tears aren’t needed, only laughter and smiles.”

“Anne…” Marilla warbled her bottom lip trembling so terribly she couldn’t make another word pass her mouth until she took a great gulp of air. “I’m glad to know about Mary and the baby, but…I’m…th-there…last night…it’s Mathew…you see –”

“Oh dear, has the cold come back?” Anne asked fretfully, her joy fleeing her as she ascended the stairs to stand close to her mother. “Does he need to go to a hospital?”

“He’s gone,” Marilla finally muttered, fresh tears spilling from her blue eyes, leaving dewy residue along her pale cheeks.

“You’ve taken him to the hospital already?” Anne exclaimed. “Did you get Jerry to help? How did –”

“He’s gone, Anne!” Marilla shouted, making the redhead flinch. Marilla instantly regretted her harsh outcry, but she couldn’t think of a way to make Anne understand.

“Gone where?” Anne asked slowly, a shadow encroaching across her features, tainting the laugh lines, diminishing the happy glow of her pale skin, leaving it a sallow, sickly ivory.

“With Michael,” Marilla replied, seeing her daughter’s joy crumble before her eyes, and her heart broke all over again.

“No,” Anne said, almost a whisper, her voice so small it was as if she’d changed into a timid church mouse. “That can’t be true.”

“It was in his sleep. Peaceful.”

“You’re wrong!” Anne yelled. “It isn’t true! I don’t believe you!”

“Anne!”

But it was too late, Anne had run into the house, and Marilla didn’t have the strength to go after her. The last of the Cuthberts finally allowed her sorrow to drown her spirit and she collapsed on the porch of Green Gables, her sobs wracking her body as she sent both curses and prayers to God for the sweet soul of her little brother.

And as Marilla’s grieving began in earnest, Anne barged into Mathew’s bedroom.

He was still propped up on the pillows; he’d said it was easier to breathe if he was slightly reclined rather than laying flat. Her copy of _Jane Eyre_ was open on his lap, his fingers crooked around the pages, as if he’d nodded off while in the middle of chapter nine, and Anne let loose a hollow little laugh to see he’d broken his promise and snuck more of the story while she’d been away. The blankets were folded up to the middle of his stomach, and the candle on his night table was still burning, though the wick was low and the wax had overflowed and was stuck to the pine surface. Marilla always hated when Mathew or Anne fell asleep with a candle burning, and Anne approached the little flickering flame to blow it out and spare her sweet Mathew the nattering of his practical older sister.

Gently, Anne sat on the bed, grey eyes unblinking as they took in every aspect of Mathew’s peaceful face, of the age and kindness etched into each grooving wrinkle, and wistful peppery wisps of whiskers that made his jaw wonderfully bristly, and the little dark mole that roosted just at the hairline of his left temple and that he was horribly self conscious of, always styling his hair so that the smoky tresses covered the imperfection that was part of what made Mathew so perfect. His eyes were closed, the lids so pearlescent Anne could follow the thin blue veins that wove along the papery skin. His lashes were resting against cheeks that looked paler than Anne had ever seen, even when he’d been so sick in the early spring. Mathew was a man of the land, his skin weathered by years of hearty work in the outdoors. It should never look so pasty; so still and cold.

His mouth was as colourless as his cheeks, the lips open in a small ‘o’ that would suggest he was lightly snoring. But there was no sound that broke the silence in the room, and Anne dared not check to see if breath might whistle past those ashen lips and whisper against her fingertips. She was too frightened to know the truth, even when it was clear that Mathew’s chest was not moving and his body bore no heat.

“Mathew?” she said quietly. “I’m back.”

He didn’t answer.

He’d never answer her again.

But before that awful certainty could take root in her heart, Anne resolved to imagine.

For one last time, she supposed that Mathew was only dozing, that she could feel his body move against hers in sleepy snuffles as she curled against his side, could feel the warmth of his spirit when she threw an arm around his chest and squeezed. Anne used every last drop of her imagination to allow her, just for a minute, to believe that Mathew would rouse, that his calloused hand would pat hers gently, and his blue eyes would sparkle with mirth, and he’d ask her what had happened at the Blythe-Lacroix orchard.

“It’s alright to sleep, just for a while,” Anne said, tucking her head against Mathew’s shoulder. “But don’t rest too long. I want to tell you all about Baby Lacroix. I promised I would, but I don’t want to disturb your nap, so I’ll wait until you wake up…”

Mathew remained still at her side.

“…please wake up…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SSSSSSOOOOOO…………
> 
> Who hates me right now?
> 
> Everyone?
> 
> That’s fair.
> 
> I kinda hate me, too. 
> 
> I think most of you were able to guess it would be poor sweet Mathew that would meet his Maker in this fic. Whether you predicted it would be this soon in the story or later on, I can’t say, but I reiterate, I did not make this death lightly and it will have purpose for Anne which we’ll come to see in a few chapters down the road. 
> 
> Even though this has always been the plan (and I mean literally, before I even started drafting this story and it was just a glob of various scenes in my head, this moment – death – was always going to happen), that didn’t make penning it any easier. I’m truly gutted over what I had to do to Mathew, not to mention the heartache I have visited on all his loved ones.
> 
> I have this sort of fascination with literary parallels that examine life and death simultaneously, and when I decided that Mathew was going to die in this fic, I knew it had to be on the same night that Mary gave birth. This theme of life and death, babies and parents, all of it is tied up into this larger idea of maturity and identity, which we’ll start to see more of as Anne now must make that long and difficult journey through grief and mourning and find out what new Anne she will become after this life-altering event.
> 
> But before that heart-crushing moment I decided to end this chapter with, I did throw in something that was so blindingly bright and beautiful that I can only hope it gave you some joy (even as I pulled that rug out from under you). 
> 
> Because having Anne and Gilbert majorly make out immediately after the safe birth of Mary and Bash’s baby was also always part of my plan for ‘Dear Anne’. In fact, this steamy kiss was supposed to be their first in my original draft. And because one of the themes of this story is understanding sexual maturity, I knew that this make-out session was gonna be a bit raunchy, though not terribly risqué (that may come later though). 
> 
> Gilbert and Anne aren’t just learning to understand themselves in a sexual way, but how they work together in a sexual way, and I just think that’s so interesting to their relationship. By this point, they know how they work as a team, as best friends, rivals, partners, even as sweethearts to some degree. But as sexual beings, as lovers, they’re still figuring that out.
> 
> I also sprinkled in some Anne-backstory, which I’ve promised will become important to her deeply meaningful personal quest set to take place in the second half of this fic, as well as some Gilbert-depth. In fact, I wanted to show in this chapter just how alike Anne and Gilbert are: both don’t care to remember the traumatic moments from their pasts, and both rely heavily on their minds (Anne on her imagination, Gilbert on his logic) as a means of escapism from those bad memories. The two also share similar hopes and dreams for the future (a house of dreams, if you will), cementing the whole ‘they’re soul mates’ vibe I’m going for, so that was nice and fun and sweet, right?
> 
> Well, the damage is done and there’s no going back. I only hope (and I’ll even beg) that you’re sticking with me ‘til the end of this ride.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for your encouragement.
> 
> Next Chapter: it’s time to say goodbye to Avonlea’s sweetest, kindest, dearest soul
> 
> Hugs and kisses for every reader, commentor, subscriber, kudos-er, bookmarker, and recommender. ‘Dear Anne’ wouldn’t be what it is without you!


	10. I'll Miss You...Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We say 'goodbye' to an old friend, and 'hello' to another

_‘Dear Anne,_

_Sorrow is part of what it means to be alive. Your heart will break, many times I should imagine, but a broken heart is a lucky thing, sweet girl. Before a heart can be shattered it must have felt something splendid, and the more agonizing the anguish the more bliss that must once have existed, and_ that _is worth the pain and always will be…’_

* * *

Gilbert knew that in all his years he’d never be more thankful that Rachel Lynde was such a notorious gossip than he was on that terrible Sunday morning.

The day had begun so beautifully.

With only a few hours’ sleep and a crying nephew to cuddle while he tried to give the new parents and fearless Mrs. Baker a few more minutes of rest, Gilbert greeted the morning with a fulfilled and easy heart. Baby Lacroix seemed to like his Uncle Gilby just fine, even if he wasn’t a fan of the wider world yet, but then again, he’d only been introduced to it four hours ago. He squirmed in Gilbert’s embrace, but he seemed to like the timber of the young man’s voice, settling as Gilbert talked to him of one thing after another, school subjects mostly.

After changing the baby’s nappy, Gilbert tucked him into the cradle propped next to Bash and Mary’s bed. He woke the pair to tell them he was leaving for church and that there was porridge on the stove if either of them were inclined to eat. He tip-toed past the guest room where Mrs. Baker slept, thinking he’d have to write her a sincere thank you for being the guardian angel that kept his family safe. He’d tuck it in with her payment before offering to take her back to Glen St. Mary later that afternoon.

He took his time getting ready, polishing his boots, fussing with his tie, and making sure his watch was wound and snug in the pocket of his best waistcoat. He fiddled with his hair, trying to give some semblance of order to his curls, but he thought maybe Anne liked them a little wild, so he abandoned the grooming and simply donned his cap before heading out the door.

The day was warm, feeling more like summer than spring, with a clear blue sky that stretched as far as the ocean. The magnificent expanse of the island seemed as far reaching as Gilbert’s feelings, for the young man was certain his heart had outgrown his body and was now cocooning Avonlea, insulating the village in his pure joy.

As he walked to Anne’s farm, a skip in his step and a whistle on his lips, a fragrant incense wafted after Gilbert, beckoning the young man off the familiar path and into a field lush with mayflowers. The pink blossoms spread out before him in a meadow of green, pretty little freckles dotting the land, and Gilbert was suddenly inspired. He worked quickly to pick a cluster of mayflowers, choosing the ones that were so vibrant in shade they reminded him of taffy. He knew Anne adored the colour pink, no matter how much she lamented that it clashed with her hair, and he wondered if he might be able to convince her to weave a crown out of the flowers to wear to church.

The image of Anne adorned in blossoms he’d picked for her had Gilbert smiling from ear to ear, and he quickly returned to the road that would take him to Green Gables.

As he resumed his walk, a buggy in the distance turned towards him. It was charging up the road quick enough that the black mare’s hooves kicked up dust around the wheels and Gilbert swiftly stepped to the side to avoid getting knocked down. However, the buggy slowed as it got closer to him before finally coming to a stop, the driver and his passenger a pair Gilbert greeted with a congenial smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lynde, Mr. Lynde.”

“I suppose it’s a good morning for the Blythe-Lacroix family,” Mrs. Lynde replied, voice strangely wet, as if she’d been weeping. “I heard about the baby. I’m sure Mary and Bash are thrilled with their new addition.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Gilbert said, already proud as a peacock over his nephew. “I don’t mean to rush,” he excused, tipping his hat at the couple, “but I’m off to Green Gables.”

“So you’ve heard?! Goodness, I wasn’t sure many knew just yet,” Mrs. Lynde exclaimed, and suddenly she was dabbing at tears, her plump face going pale even under the hot morning sun.

“Know what?” Gilbert asked, concerned over the woman’s distress, especially when his question only drew more tears from her.

Confused, Gilbert looked to Mr. Lynde, hoping for some clarity, or at least assurance, but as he took in the ashen hue of the portly gentleman’s face he was unable to detect the familiar jovial sparkle in his dark eyes. When he noticed the man’s thick grey moustache was damp against his upper lip and that he looked to have been crying himself, Gilbert felt a chain of dread start to slither hard and heavy around his neck.

“So you don’t know,” Mrs. Lynde finally managed to say, “but then why –” she stopped asking her question when she spotted the bouquet of wildflowers in Gilbert’s hand, making a series of quick suppositions in her mind to store away and examine later. Right now, she had a duty to be the bearer of difficult news, but it was important Gilbert knew, especially if he was intent on going to Green Gables. “Just as Avonlea was blessed with a new little angel last night, so too has the Almighty taken one of ours back into His embrace.”

“Mrs. Lynde I don’t –”

“Mathew died last night,” she announced, breaking down into a series of sobs. “In his sleep. Very peaceful. But he’s gone.”

Gilbert absorbed the news as if it were dark molasses. It was a slow understanding, something creeping and thick, but once it entered his soul it was as if everything became a tacky, sticky, stained mess, coating his throat, filling his ears, congealing in his veins.

“I don’t…I can’t…believe it.”

“It’s all just so terrible…so very sad,” Mrs. Lynde consoled. “We’ve just come from telling the minister. He’ll let the rest of the congregation know. And now we’re off for Carmody to fetch the undertaker.”

“Of course,” Gilbert replied, remembering all the tragic to-dos one had to complete when a loved one died.

He wasn’t sure if he bid farewell to the couple, he just started running for Green Gables. His legs burned as he ran as fast as he could down the path and then a shortcut through a field of alfalfa that brought him to the west-side fence of the Cuthbert’s farm. Their horses were grazing, but Gilbert paid them no mind as he ran towards the house. He noticed there were several buggies parked in the drive and guessed that more would arrive as word spread.

When he reached the porch, Jerry came out of the house, a black silk wreath in his hands. The two young men locked eyes, and Gilbert didn’t dare ask if what Mrs. Lynde had told him was true because the distraught half-hearted smile the farmhand tried to offer him was all the confirmation Gilbert needed.

Mathew Cuthbert was dead and knowing that felt like being hit with a steam engine. Yet even as his own grief tried to take hold of him, Gilbert’s first thought wasn’t for his own sorrow at the loss of such a kind man and dear neighbour, but of Anne.

He had to find Anne. He had to be there for her.

Gilbert took a moment to help Jerry hang the wreath, the dark decoration making his stomach churn with memories still too close to the surface; of a time when it had been _his_ door adorned with a mourning wreath. And as he looked at the solemn circle of ebony silk, it felt to Gilbert as if Green Gables itself was crying out in anguish over the loss of Mathew.

Taking off his cap, Gilbert followed Jerry inside.

For all that the exterior of the white and green farmhouse was grave stillness and sobriety, the inside was filled with a melancholy chaos. Every matron in Avonlea was bustling around the modest home, upstairs and down, peeping out of cubbies, sweeping through halls, their shoes clicking back and forth as they moved with efficient and purposeful care.

Mrs. Barry, her cook, and Mrs. Gillis were all fretting in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, making breads and soups and casseroles, their meals spread over the counters and butcher’s block as if they were preparing a great feast for a dozen lumberjacks.

Mrs. Andrews and her family’s maid were sorting through baskets of laundry and he heard someone call for a washing tub to be brought outside.

Tillie and Jane were dusting, their movements lifeless, their expressions dour. Josie and Ruby were lifting a rug and meaning to bring it outside for a good beating, while Mrs. Pye made her way upstairs, her arms filled with fresh bed linens and quilts. 

Moody’s mother was working on Marilla’s mending, having helped herself to the shirts and skirts in the basket Gilbert knew the Cuthbert matriarch usually kept in the cupboard under the stairs. She was fixing a tear in the cuff of a dress Gilbert recognized as Anne’s, and it occurred to him that he’d spotted nearly every woman in Avonlea invading the nooks and crannies of Green Gables, but he hadn’t seen a single strand of red hair amongst the crowd. His entrance ignored, Gilbert weaved in and out of the waves of women and made his way to the parlour where he found the red hair he’d been seeking, the tresses caught in the middle of the most despondent tableau.

Anne was sitting on the edge of the chesterfield in the same dress she’d worn at his house hours before. Her back was stiff, knees and elbows bent so severely that it seemed as if she was stuck, and her hair had fallen out of the knot at her neck to cascade with a limp sorrow over her shoulders. Her pallor was ghostly, her freckles seeming to have disappeared, and her lips rested in a grim peach line while her grey eyes stared ahead in unblinking suspension, not seeing the commotion sweeping through her house, or caring that Diana Barry was at her side trying to coax her to take a cup of tea, or that Gilbert had walked right up to her with concerned urgency.

“Anne,” he said, desperate and worried and a little afraid as he lowered himself to his knees before her. It took several minutes before she looked at him, but her eyes were lost, as if she was seeing his shadow and not him. “I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss. I...”

He placed the bouquet of mayflowers on her lap and she did move to take them, her fingers barely brushing against his as she clasped the stems, her thumb playing against one of the soft pink petals.

“…mayflowers are for undying love,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, exhausted from not speaking for hours. “They’re perfect…my love for Mathew is a flame that will burn eternal in my heart…I feel as if it’s burning me from the inside out.”

“Oh Anne!” Diana snivelled, holding a handkerchief to her mouth as she started to cry. From the looks of it, Diana had been crying for both herself and Anne all morning, her dark eyes swollen with tears while Anne’s remained unnervingly dry.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked Anne, raising a hand to touch her covered knee and run his blunt fingertips over her in a quick caress before anyone saw. Anne looked at him with raw emotion, her face speaking louder than any scream could, but other than express how terribly she was hurting, Anne couldn’t seem to say how Gilbert could help because she truly didn’t know what she needed.

“I’ve got her,” Diana offered after a long beat of silence between the pair. The raven-haired girl curled an arm around Anne’s shoulders, the redhead too numb to even lean into the embrace.

Gilbert knew there was nothing he could do for Anne. He knew he couldn’t take her away from the chaos of the house or her feelings. He knew he couldn’t bring Mathew back to life. Hell, he couldn’t even take her in his arms because the last thing Anne needed was the scandalized squawking of every gossip in Avonlea barreling down on her for improper behaviour! All he could do was be there, a presence hovering nearby should she need him, even if it was just to know he was close. So Gilbert didn’t leave Green Gables, though he did leave the parlour, trusting that Diana was the best support for Anne just then.

Back in the thick of things, Gilbert looked around for a chore to keep him occupied and was about to go to the barn to see if that was where Jerry might have disappeared to when he spotted the only other still presence in the whirlwind of women.

Marilla Cuthbert was sat at the table in the front room.

She was dressed in a blouse and skirt. Her hair was pulled up and pinned back in the style he’d always known her to wear. Her posture was tall and strong, her hands were linked together before her on the table, and her expression was as numb as Anne’s. Seeing that there was another Green Gables woman that he might be able to comfort, Gilbert went to the table and sat across from Marilla.

“Ms. Cuthbert?” he broached cautiously, waiting for the older woman to shift her gaze to him.

It was odd seeing the woman so still, especially when her house was teaming with activity. Normally Marilla would be commanding her kitchen the way a captain commands a crew, or admonishing her guests for doing her chores, or offering to make a pot of tea while everyone worked at their tasks. This wasn’t like Marilla at all, but then again, no one was ever like themselves when someone they loved died.

“I’m so sorry,” he offered, knowing the words weren’t a comfort, but hoping she understood he was expressing more than his sympathies; he was trying to tell her that they were kindred in their common grief over loss of family. He thought perhaps Marilla recognized his meaning when she tried to smile but was unable to make her mouth undertake the effort.

“Thank you, Gilbert,” she said. “Anne told me Mary had a boy.”

“She did,” Gilbert answered.

“And they’re well?’

“Both of them are just fine.”

“Good. That’s good…I needed to hear something good.”

Gilbert watched as stern and sturdy Marilla Cuthbert took in a shaky breath, noting how her bottom lip trembled and her robin’s eggshell blue eyes held an insurmountable sadness. He wasn’t at all perplexed by the woman’s divergence in subject. When his own father had died, all he’d wanted to do was to talk about something normal like school, or hockey, or a baby being born.

But death was not patient, and whether or not Ms. Cuthbert wanted to plan Mathew’s funeral, it was work that needed to be done. It was a lesson Gilbert had learned on his own, remembering that he’d never felt more alone in the world then when he’d had to make decisions over caskets, and hymns, and plots. There’d been no one to support him three years ago, he was the last of the Blythes after all, but the past, even the painful parts, didn’t’ make him bitter. If anything, his own experiences only made Gilbert want to help.

And he wasn’t much of a cook or housekeeper, and Anne was clearly in the safe, comforting hands of her bosom friend, and Jerry was tending to the farm, and no doubt the good Lord was being inundated with too many prayers to keep up with them all that morning, so Gilbert did the one useful thing he knew he could.

Taking a half finished shopping list he spotted on the table and Anne’s fountain pen from his pocket, he flipped the paper over and started writing.

“You’ll have to pick out clothes,” he began, pen scratching across the paper.

“Clothes?” Marilla questioned, almost as if coming out of a trance.

“His Sunday suit should be fine.,” Gilbert supposed, making a note beside the first point on the sheet. “The parlour is probably the best place for him to lay until the burial, so I can get Jerry and some of the other men to help move the furniture and store it in the barn. Do you know if there was a bible verse or hymn Mr. Cuthbert liked? The minister will read the usual funeral psalms but he’ll ask if there was something special you’d like him to add to the service. Will he be buried here at Green Gables or at the churchyard?”

And slow and steadily as the morning waned into afternoon, Gilbert and Marilla planned.

With a calm and patient hand, Gilbert led Marilla through every detail that required attention. They noted which passages they wanted Minister McPherson to include in the service and had a few choices for hymns that Marilla would decide on later. They organized hours of visitation over the next two days, and who would be asked to be pallbearers, and when Mathew would be buried. Gilbert insisted he be allowed to pay for Mathew’s stone, and once the short spat he had with Marilla over that detail was done (and seemed to have given the woman a bit of reinvigoration), Gilbert made a note to send a telegraph to the same stonecutter who had made his father’s grave marker.

And as the list grew, it seemed that with each item added Marilla came back to herself.

Her shoulders rose from their slouch, her bottom lip stopped trembling, and her breathing returned to a calm, even pace. Her eyes remained glassy, and sometimes she’d dab at them with a handkerchief Gilbert gave her, but she wasn’t caught in the haze of helpless observation; stuck in slow motion while the world around her continued to revolve too fast for her to keep up.

“I never planned for this, you know,” Marilla said, sipping at the tea Mrs. Pye had made, but not touching the sandwich which was going stale on a plate by her elbow.

“No one does,” Gilbert replied.

“Oh, but I did. Just for myself, not Mathew,” Marilla clarified. “I’m the oldest, so it should have been me to go first, and Mathew isn’t…wasn’t very good at taking charge, especially when so many people are involved. I’ve taken care of him my… _his_ whole life, and I suppose I was trying to take care of him even in my death.

“I had everything organized. All the prayers and hymns, who the pallbearers were to be and what time of day I wanted to be interred. Some of my ideas changed when Anne came to live with us. I had my wishes for her added to my will and a message that I wanted the two of them to live happily and not spend a year mourning me. I won’t have that kind of inert nonsense. It doesn’t do a soul good to stay stuck in sorrow, no matter what convention says. But I left no detail out because I didn’t want Mathew to worry. It never occurred to me, not once, that he would leave me first; that I’d be planning my little brother’s funeral. I should have…I should have been better prepared.”

“This is not a thing you _can_ prepare for,” Gilbert said sagely, “even when you have prepared for it; when you’ve allowed yourself to consider every dark possibility, when you know the inevitable is coming, it still all comes at you like a horrible surprise.”

“Oh Gilbert,” Marilla sighed, reaching out to take the boy’s hand in hers. She meant to give him a few heartfelt taps, but when Gilbert’s fingers closed around hers Marilla found she hadn’t the strength to pull away. She could see the young man was hurting, too. A different hurt than her own, a haunted hurt, one that was kindled by old aches and new.

She knew the boy was thinking of his father’s passing (Marilla had thought of John Blythe often herself as the day had gone on) but he’d had a relationship with Mathew, too. They weren’t as close as Mathew and Jerry, but there was a respect between the two, and something else that connected them beyond the boarders of neighbours and family friends: their shared adoration for an impetuous and imaginative redhead.

“You know,” Marilla said, finding herself smiling despite her woe, “Mathew always thought well of you, Gilbert Blythe. He told me he…he told me you were a fine young man.”

“I hope he knew I thought well of him, too,” Gilbert offered, remorseful that he’d never get to tell Mathew that himself.

Marilla didn’t get a chance to say anything further to Gilbert. Right then, Mrs. Lynde entered Green Gables with the undertaker, and now the true grim business needed to begin. With her chin held high, Marilla greeted the balding mortician and led him to Mathew’s bedroom. Seeing Marilla ascend the stairs with her customary polite poise to face her most dreaded reality gave Gilbert some relief.

Marilla would be alright.

And that had to mean that someday, not very soon but definitely someday, Anne would be alright, too.

* * *

Mathew Cuthbert was dead, and Anne’s world was grey.

If you told her that the day of Mathew’s funeral was a sunny, cheery morning, with the fields of Avonlea shimmering like yards of viridian velvet, and the winding red dirt roads smooth as a satin ribbon, rows of mauve lupins springing up along the sides of those well trod paths and waving as if at a parade as a shy breeze brushed their long emerald stems, Anne would have been none the wiser.

For there was no colour in her world.

She couldn’t see the turquoise expanse of sky, or the daisy white sheen of Minister MacPherson’s vestments, or the dark moss richness of the fir trees that lined Avonlea’s humble churchyard like guards at their posts. Belle’s champagne coat had been brushed to gleaming brilliance, but Anne couldn’t tell because her sweet mare was pulling Mathew’s casket, the loyal animal commissioned to solemnly lead her master’s body to his final resting place.

The Cuthbert plot was under the shade of a fat oak, which gave Anne some comfort. Besides being returned to his parents and brother, Mathew would have the old tree to keep him company. Perhaps his spirit would befriend the squirrels that would forage for the acorns of Grandfather Oak, and as she had that fanciful thought (her first in three days) Anne felt the bubbling urge to cry start to curdle within her, but tears refused to flow.

She hadn’t cried. Not once.

She didn’t know why.

The feeling of wanting to cry was there. In fact, it was constant, keeping her up through the night, making her tummy ache and sinuses feel clogged. Her head pounded with want for crying, and yet it was as if she were as dry as a bone. Her spirit would not relinquish the tears, because if she cried Anne was certain she’d never stop.

If she cried, it meant all of this was real, that Mathew was dead and gone and nothing would ever be right again.

Anne had once believed her life was a graveyard of buried hopes. She’d once believed her red hair would be her lifelong sorrow. She’d once been believed that she knew what it meant to be lost to the depths of despair

What she would give to know those old troubles now then have to face this new demolishing pain.

She’d rather fail her entrance exams, or spend every afternoon for the rest of her life shining Mrs. Lynde’s silver, or kiss Billy Andrews…

She’d rather take a beating from Mr. Hammond, the bark from the dead stump he’d press her to digging uncomfortably into her stomach, his belt leaving stinging bruises on the backs of her thighs, his breath a putrid smog of cheap beer that left her ear feeling damp as he whispered crude words to her with each strike of the strap.

Even those wretched times seemed tolerable to the agony Anne was faced with as she released a clump of dirt into Mathew’s grave, the soil making a dull thumping noise a bit like rain on a roof as it struck the coffin, the little flecks left behind on her fingertips making her skin feel grainy.

The entire village of Avonlea was huddled in the churchyard, mourners dressed in midnight silks and satins and wools. Women wore bonnets with black roses, men wore black ties and held their hats as their heads were lowered in prayer. Diana was dressed in the most delicate dark veil, standing near Anne throughout the service, while Jerry, Bash and Gilbert all wore mourning bands, not only to signify their positions as pallbearers, but to express their deep affection for Mathew who they were honouring as was befitting the patriarch of their odd mixed family. 

Anne found herself often glancing at Gilbert throughout the funeral, hoping she’d find him staring at her, but he never did which seemed to sting worse than anything else the sixteen-year old was feeling. She’d often found such comfort in his company, but since the start of this whole horrible business, Anne hadn’t had a moment to catch Gilbert alone. She didn’t know if she wanted to talk, or cuddle, or kiss, or just sit side-by-side, but she knew she wanted his reassurance that she could survive this grief. After all, he had managed to continue after his father’s death, making him by far the strongest person she knew. She needed that strength now, and if he would only glance at her she truly believed she could tell him that with nothing more than a look.

He was always so good at reading her heart in her looks.

But Gilbert never did look at her. He kept his hazel eyes dutifully downcast as the minister recited prayers and homilies. He sang the hymns requested by Marilla, his voice joining the chorus of villagers whose sombre singing moved through the churchyard like a low rolling tide. And all the while, Gilbert Blythe seemed to Anne to be the most handsome and sad boy she’d ever seen.

For herself, Anne went through the motions of the funeral in silence, standing sturdily by Marilla but never holding her hand, or leaning into her to cry, or even casting a concerned glance her way. Marilla was always so well put together that Anne never considered her mother was even feeling the same grief rolling through Anne’s thin frame. She didn’t see as Marilla kept her composure by biting at her lip to keep from wailing, or how she kept wringing her gloved hands fretfully, or how her clear blue eyes did release a few tears when the minister concluded the service and the gravediggers started shovelling dirt into Mathew’s plot.

Anne had closed her eyes then, not caring to carry that image of men pouring earth on her father. She thought she’d only shut them for a few seconds, but when she dared to open them again she found herself alone in the churchyard. The rest of the village was petering off, returning on their mournful trek to Green Gables where food and drink and company could be enjoyed as they all began the painful business of moving on.

Anne couldn’t help the sliver of resentment that went through her heart then.

For three days she’d had to endure listening to the condolences of her friends and neighbours, like a queen taking petitions in court. While she could appreciate that others were sympathetic to her sorrow, she hated when they would insist on telling her stories of Mathew: of how he’d helped the Gillis’ during a bad harvest two years before Anne came to Avonlea, or assisted in digging a well on the Pyes’ property last summer, or murmured gentle encouragement to Moody’s favourite ewe when she was struggling to birth her lamb only a month ago.

Then there were the stories told by men and women as old as or older than Mathew had been. They’d been his classmates and peers, and while Anne had politely greeted them during the viewing hours in the dreary parlour of her dear Green Gables they’d told her stories of what Mathew was like as a boy. The tales were vast and varied, short and long, snippets of playing marbles in the schoolyard, or learning to swim in the Lake of Shining Waters, or of simply sharing a friendly wave every time they saw one another.

Anne learned things about her father that astonished her.

Mr. Sheppard, from Carmody, told Anne that Mathew had been the uncontested sharp shooting champion among all the boys in the county when they were barely out of school. Widow Annette remembered a time when she and Mathew were no more than eleven years old and he’d laid down his jacket over a muddy puddle just outside the general store and helped her to cross the road. Mr. Abbott fondly recalled the time he and Mathew had played pirates at the Ruins, the two of them roughhousing so terribly that they’d had to return home with split lips and bloody noses.

The memories were educed with affection and reverence, but each unraveling story had Anne’s heart clenching painfully, those dratted tears wanting to bubble over, but never spilling forth.

The young man these mourners described sounded like a completely different person to the one Anne was grieving. She’d never known Mathew to be more or less than the sweet shy man who loved and played with her, but otherwise kept to himself.

She didn’t doubt the stories; that is to say, she didn’t doubt the storytellers and their belief that the past they spoke of had happened. But Anne couldn’t understand why Mathew had never told her of riding the rails to Summerside on a dare, or about the time he and Michael had stolen potatoes from Old Jim’s garden, or that he’d escorted Mrs. Leclair to visit her family in Montreal one long ago autumn and had hated every minute of it, or so the woman’s granddaughter, Hortense, claimed. It was as if he’d hidden parts of himself from her and that stung worse than the bite of a yellowjacket. The only wound that was worse was the knowing that she’d never be able to ask Mathew about these stories, which left Anne feeling as if, perhaps, she hadn’t known her father very well at all.

And there would only be more stories, more doubt, more confusion when she went back to Green Gables. The whole village and then some would be gathered in her home, making it feel like a bubble about to burst, and she’d have to play hostess, and converse, and listen, and she didn’t think she could.

Not just yet.

She just needed a moment.

So she walked.

Anne walked out of the churchyard and took the lane that led her away from Green Gables, away from Avonlea, past the Haunted Wood and schoolhouse, through tall grass and vast meadows until she could smell the salt of the sea.

The roar of waves seemed to reside within Anne the nearer she got to the cliff. If she closed her eyes she could feel the rush of the ocean filling her, each pulling tide and whitecap, every whirlpool and wave, all of it lived within her, choking her from the inside, as if there were a sea monster tearing its way out of her heart, the angry, slithery creature violently demanding its release.

Anne fell to her knees and screamed.

Her anguished cry carried over the roar of the ocean, shattered the soul of the sea as her heartbreaking pain was unleashed upon the air, carried off by the waves to ports unknown across the globe.

The tears came finally and they were hot, burning her pale skin as they dripped down her nose and chin and landed in her lap, leaving perfect damp circles on the skirt of her mourning dress. Her nails dug deep into the ground at her sides, ripping grass and weeds up by the root, crushing them in her palms, as if she might condense all of her pain into the clumps of earth and create perfect purple diamonds that would encase her sorrow and despair, exorcising them from her weakened spirit.

Anne wept for a timeless drag, howling her woe, cursing everything and everyone she blamed for Mathew’s parting. Her body convulsed with her rage and grief, her little frame somehow enduring the writhing of her feral mourning. And when she felt as if there was no more her soul could endure, when she was certain there was not a drop of _anything_ (joy, sadness, anger, fear) left inside her, a hand swept softly across her back and reached around to gently cup her elbow.

Suddenly, a spark of hope ignited like a sputtering match deep within her heart, and Anne turned to see who had found her, knowing it was someone she loved, knowing it was Gilbert that had followed her and was at her side and ready to be her comfort and support as she struggled so hard to find her way out of the oubliette of misery she’d fallen in.

The face that looked down on her was a dear one. His expression was solemn, his skin paler than she remembered. His fine caramel hair, longer than when she’d last seen him, wafted romantically across his wide brow, caught in the sea breeze. His lean pointed chin quaked in a brave attempt to not let his own tears tremble down his fine boned cheeks, and his seafoam green eyes were simply alive with sympathetic remorse, making them seem like churning waves restlessly trapped behind locks, waiting for Anne to release the gate and let them flow.

Cole Mackenzie didn’t say a word, and for that Anne was grateful.

She was so pleased to see him that her heart hadn’t the time to register her disappointment that it wasn’t Gilbert that had come to her in her hour of need. What did matter was that a good friend – a kindred spirit – had come to pick her up from the bottomless fathoms of her despair.

And as Anne leaned heavily against Cole, his spindly arms circled around her as she buried her face into his shoulder and bellowed out a fresh deluge of tears. Anne clung to the boy that was her only anchor as she rocked on the edge of her old world, terrified to face all the bleak tomorrows that lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself sad!
> 
> Why do I keep doing this to myself (and by extension, you?)
> 
> But before I give insight into the ANGST, can I just say how grateful I am to all of you. The response Chapter Nine received is so overwhelming that I'm feeling too much at once, much like our dear Anne but, you know, the happier too much feeling, not the sad stuff.
> 
> So, thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Now, back to the notes!
> 
> Another image I’ve had in my head since I first started envisioning this story was our sweet, romantic Gilbert alighting on Green Gables with a bouquet of wildflowers for Anne only to have his heart crushed when he learns that Mathew Cuthbert has died. And so his romantic gift becomes a condolence endowment, and our poor young man is left at a loss over how to help his beloved. He'll find a way to comfort Anne, just as she’ll find a way to tell him of her grief, but it will take time, and if they have to be patient then we all have to be!
> 
> Again with exploring different relationships in this alternate S3, I really liked writing Gilbert and Marilla’s scene in this chapter. I have a major soft spot for this pair (see my other work: ‘A Week With Anne’) and I’m sorry we’ll never see them really get to explore their connection on screen (but I suppose that is why fan fiction exists). And as morose as it is seeing the pair bond over the death of loved ones (their scene at the graveyard in S1 was a highlight for me), I really like the idea of them finding kinship and comfort in knowing what the other is experiencing without having to say anything. I also felt that Gilbert was serving as a sort of beacon to Marilla, helping her step back into her life as she absorbs and accepts her new reality without Mathew. 
> 
> And finally…Cole!
> 
> The cliff scene is yet another one I’ve had planned pretty much from the beginning of this fic, fake out and all. We’ll get to see a bit more of Cole in the next chapter, and he’ll be coming up in later chapters, too! 
> 
> So you see, there are things to look forward to. It’s not all sadness and grief. There is light at the end of the tunnel. And who knows, in another chapter or two, that tunnel could turn out to be a Tunnel of Love, eh?
> 
> But speaking of upcoming chapters, the next one is going to be delayed (which is why I posted this one early); it's just giving me a lot of trouble, trying to get it organized in just the right (and write) way and I want to make it good for you all. Normally I don't do this, but I wanted to give fair warning: March 13th (Friday the 13th! Spooky!) will be when Chapter Eleven is published and then we'll be back on track with our regular weekly updates.
> 
> And speaking of the next chapter:
> 
> Next Chapter: a trip to Charlottetown to finalize Mathew’s affairs leaves Anne feeling desperate while Gilbert gets advice, and an amazing opportunity, from a good friend (let the theorizing begin!)
> 
> As always, I adore each and every one of the readers, kudos-ers, commenters, subscribers, bookmarkers and recommenders that have made ‘Dear Anne’ such a treat to create.


	11. Parting Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on is hard...but not impossible

_‘Dear Anne,_

_I try, but sometimes the echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys catch up to me. They pull me down, tipping me over until I’ve fallen into a cavern of my own design, where the rocky walls are painted in my beautiful plans that will never know the light of day, and I am trapped with them. They mock me until I think I might go mad._

_Thank God for you, Anne._

_If not for you, I imagine I would wither up and die in that cave, the laughter of my abandoned hopes lulling me into an eternally restless sleep. And I am so tired some days, sweet girl, that I’m certain if not for you I wouldn’t have the strength to keep my eyes open one day longer…’_

* * *

“And so it is my intent to create a testamentary trust for my daughter, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. I name my sister, Marilla Cuthbert, as Trustee until such time that Anne reaches the age of majority. This trust includes a fifty percent share in Green Gables and all supplementary assets attached to the house and land, and a bequeathment of five hundred dollars for the purpose of payment towards Anne’s college education.

“Until Anne reaches the age of eighteen, my Trustee will keep the assets of the trust invested in good faith, and may, with discretion, invest and/or reinvest trust funds provided that the Trustee acts with care, skill, prudence, and diligence with consideration of all financial and economic factors that will be for the benefit of Anne’s best interests. 

“The remaining fifty percent of shares in Green Gables will be entrusted to my sister, Marilla Cuthbert.

“To carry out the terms of my Will, I give my Trustee, Marilla Cuthbert, the following powers to be used at her discretion at any time in the management of a trust created hereunder, namely…”

Mister Alvin Roberts of Jacobs-Melvin & Partners was a good lawyer.

He was more boring than geometry, his voice a monochrome pattern of legalese as he spent an hour reciting Mathew Cuthbert’s last will and testament to the man’s surviving family, but while he wasn’t interesting he was knowledgeable and thorough, and by Marilla’s standards that made him the best solicitor in all of Prince Edward Island.

Mr. Roberts had been the Cuthberts’ legal advisor for well over a decade. He’d been recommended to the siblings by Minister McPherson a decade ago, in the year they’d opted to rent a parcel of land to help with Green Gables’ mortgage and needed some advice on how to protect themselves in the case of a poor harvest. Knowing how precise and no-nonsense the Cuthberts were, Minister McPherson knew they’d match well with his old friend who was so exact that he’d been wearing his hair in the same evenly parted, pomade slicked style since college.

Anne thought the pomade made Mr. Roberts’ hair look like damp seaweed, the thick black locks pushed flat against his skull giving his face an angular severity, but then again the man was just skin and bones as it was. His eyes were brown and he squinted often, even though he wore copper-rimmed spectacles, the frames balancing on the edge of a spikey nose, under which a thin mustache roosted, the black whiskers also styled with pomade. He was pale too, no doubt not getting much sunlight since it appeared as if he lived in his office.

The space was likely of a fair size, but Mr. Roberts had stuffed it with such an array of objects that it felt more like a closet than a lawyer’s office. Everything was neatly placed, only there was just so much!

His desk certainly took up a great deal of space. It was a massive piece and served to make the wane man appear smaller even as he stood straight as an arrow in his wingback chair (a black leather monstrosity that squealed each time he shifted). The desk itself was fairly bare, only a nameplate, small electric lamp, an ink blotter, bottle of ink and low wicker organizer with quills and pens muddling up the surface, save for when the man might require a file, or book, or newspaper.

There was a small stove tucked away in one corner of the office, a kettle perched on top and a plain china tea set sitting perfectly on a silver tray atop an ottoman. A hat stand, coatrack, and umbrella stand were all precisely placed near the door, Mr. Roberts’ own garments nestled there while Anne and Marilla had left their spring shawls in the receiving room with Mr. Roberts’ secretary. 

Three of the four walls in the office were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of them packed with tomes, their spines an array of shades of ebony, hazelnut, juniper, goldenrod and scarlet. Anne noted three different editions of the full _Encyclopedia Britannica_ collection, a dozen copies of the _Bible_ (each in a different language), other holy books from faiths beyond the Christian dogma, philosophy texts, _The_ _Interpretation of Dreams_ by someone named Sigmund Freud, great girthy volumes with deep creased spines, thin paper-covered leaflets with no titles, an entire shelf dedicated to law, and another with the legislative records of every county in Prince Edward Island. There were no novels, not even detective stories which Anne thought might entertain a man of the law. And so, while it was obvious that Mr. Roberts was scholarly and well-read, he certainly wasn’t of a fanciful nature.

Then there were three filing cabinets sentried between two long windows dressed in velvet plum curtains of the one wall that didn’t host a bookshelf. The cabinets were three drawers high, each one monogramed with a hint of what might be hidden within the locked casements. One of the cabinets’ drawers were labeled with the alphabet, another with the numbers from one to thirty in Roman numerals, and the third with all the months in the year.

Anne wondered which cabinet had housed Mathew’s will; which drawer had protected her father’s final wishes.

“Any questions on the matter thus far, ladies?” Mr. Roberts asked.

“The accounts,” Marilla said, a dark gloved finger pointing to the bank draft laid out on Mr. Roberts’ desk along with several other legal documents that had been reviewed over the course of their appointment. “How do we go about transferring the funds? And I’m assuming we’ll need copies of Mathew’s death certificate for the bank to properly switch over ownership.”

As Mr. Roberts answered Marilla’s questions and walked her through the next steps in closing the books on Mathew’s legal life, Anne let her mind wander. She hadn’t really heard a word the man had said from the moment she and Marilla had been invited to sit in the plush cushioned chairs reserved for the solicitor’s clients and she saw no reason to start paying attention now they were nearly through with the tired business. She hadn’t even wanted to come to the lawyer’s office, hadn’t wanted to leave Avonlea if she was perfectly honest, but Marilla insisted.

It had been four days since the funeral and Anne hadn’t felt the need to venture past Green Gables’ gate once. She’d meandered around the farm, dutifully doing her chores and helping Jerry where she could but truthfully, all she wanted to do most of the time was simply burrow under the blankets of her bed and never rise again. She had cried and fretted like a temperamental infant when Marilla informed her they were going together to the lawyer’s office in Charlottetown for the reading of Mathew’s will.

' _This will be good for you_ ,’ Marilla had said over an early breakfast that morning. Anne didn’t have the heart to argue, nor the appetite to finish her porridge.

They’d caught the Saturday morning train and had met up with Gilbert who was on his way to his internship at Dr. Ward’s clinic. He’d looked so handsome, face clean shaven, and hair curling in that wild way she liked, his cobalt sweater-vest complimenting his eyes, the hazel having changed to a dark honey in the morning light. He’d smiled warmly at the two, offering Marilla the window seat and moving so he was opposite Anne. He’d greeted her kindly and even bumped her knee playfully, but Anne couldn’t bring herself to return any of his friendly gestures.

It felt like one great big insult that she should be on the train with Gilbert, riding together to Charlottetown on the day that was meant to be their first true outing as a ‘we’. But there would be no Henrietta Edwards, or enlightening conversation, or walks in parks, or cozy tea-time at the end of the line. Plans had changed, and now Anne would spend her afternoon at a lawyer’s office while Gilbert would return to his internship at Dr. Ward’s clinic, and that beautiful day she’d dreamed about only one week ago would remain a tragical almost-memory.

She’d found herself mourning for that lost day as much as she was mourning for her lost father, and so she’d shifted away from Gilbert’s flirting knees (he insisted on nudging hers every time Marilla wasn’t paying attention) and stared out the window, not speaking at all during the long ride.

She had snuck looks at Gilbert, though.

He’d spent most of the train ride talking with Marilla, asking over the farm, how he and Bash could help Jerry with the crops and organize the rest of the village to assist at harvest time, even shared a few stories of Baby Lacroix to make Marilla smile. Then he’d offered to ride back to Avonlea with the women and Marilla agreed, naturally. And while he’d spoken kindly and cracked gentle jokes with her mother, Anne was able to see through Gilbert’s ruse.

No matter his lighthearted air, Anne could tell how downtrodden he was by the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and how he’d scratched at his chin from time to time (a nervous tick he had whenever he was unsure), and how he’d cleared his throat and shifted too often, a sign he was uncomfortable and trying to hide it. She also knew he’d been acting so fidgety because of how coldly she’d treated him. She’d wanted to assure him that her sour mood wasn’t a slight against him, nor was he a failure for being unable to bring her out of her glum disposition. In fact, Gilbert Blythe was probably the only person in the world who stood a very good chance at pulling Anne back into her happy, optimistic self.

The problem was that she didn’t want to be pulled back.

She wanted to stay sad, and lonely, and cheerless. It didn’t feel right to be anything but, now that Mathew was gone…

* * *

_“Are you really going to wear black for a year?” Cole asked._

_He was sitting on her bed, watching as Anne threw one dress after another on the mattress, her closet nearly empty of any vestments as she purged her wardrobe._

_“I’m going to wear black for the rest of my life,” she announced. “If Queen Victoria can do it, so can I.”_

_“Anne…” Cole sighed in a way that made her turn her back to him._

_He was trying to be serious, and Anne didn’t want to be serious. She wanted to be emotional, and irrational, and wallow, and had thought Cole would compliment her temperament. He was only in Avonlea for one more day so she’d jumped at the chance to spend time with him, inviting the young artist to her room so she might share her grief with someone who understood her well and wouldn’t try to reason with her. Unfortunately, it seemed Cole didn’t want to cooperate._

_“This too shall pass,” he quoted gently, sneaking up behind her and gripping her shoulders in a sturdy show of support._

_“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she confessed, breath hitching, a little fearful as she tried to put her complicated emotions into words. She didn’t want to cry again, her eyes still itching from how much she had sobbed in her friend’s arms just the day before on the cliff that overlooked the wide open ocean._

_That spot had once held such hope and possibility for her. Now it seemed like a void where every happy feeling in her heart had withered up. And strangely, Anne sort of relied on the turmoil of her grief and anguish. It meant something – something for Mathew – that she was so distraught, and she clung to those miserable feelings as if her grip on this terrible woe was all that was keeping her from being thrown off the bucking stallion of life and plummeting towards the unforgiving gutter where she would surely lay broken and ruined._

_“I never want to forget this…agony,” she admitted softly. “If I do, I think I would forget him, and I would never disgrace him so heartlessly. My mourning will be his cenotaph for a thousand days and nights.”_

_“You goose,” Cole chided sweetly, enamoured of Anne even as her poetry was maudlin and overdramatic. “Just because we move on from grief doesn’t mean we forget those we love entirely. After a while, the good feelings take precedence over the sore ones. Besides, you have so many people still here waiting to help you smile again. There’s Me and Aunt Jo, Marilla, Jerry, Diana, and your godson. Diana told me Mrs. Lacroix had a little boy a few days ago.”_

_“Mmm,” Anne hummed, stepping away from Cole’s embrace to look out her window. “Mary came by with him this morning. Marilla hasn’t had a chance to meet him yet, and Mary’s only just recovered from the labour enough to start making visits. She said…she said they named him Mathew.”_

_“What an honor,” Cole declared, thinking it a beautiful tribute._

_“He’s darling,” Anne added, but her tone was desolate, as if she believed her compliment but couldn’t muster the emotion to express it._

_She truly did love the baby with all her heart, but she couldn’t seem to feel honoured that Bash and Mary had elected to baptize their son with a name that held such weight for her. Part of her was even cross that the couple donned the responsibility of keeping Mathew’s legacy alive. After all, he hadn’t been their father, their mentor, their protector. He’d been a neighbour and family friend, but not the centre around which their world revolved, like the earth spins around the sun._

_Mathew had saved Anne._

_Literally, she owed her life to the shy, kind man who met an unsightly orphan girl at Bright River station and brought her into his home with all the love and tenderness she’d been craving like a beggar starved for food and water. His affection nurtured her, healed her, and now his death had reopened every scar he’d so meticulously stitched, and it felt as if having her godson be named for this wonderful man was just another open wound on Anne’s heart rather than the balm she suspected the Lacroixs hoped it would be._

_She could never tell them that, though._

_She could never tell anyone that, not even Gilbert._

_And speaking of her best friend, Anne spotted him coming out of the barn with Jerry, arms filled with tools and a day’s worth of sweat and dirt painting his skin. Part of her was annoyed that he’d skipped school again to help at Green Gables while another part was glad to see him._

_They still hadn’t talked, and not just about their kisses and feelings, but about Mathew and death and how it was possible to survive losing your father. Anne knew Gilbert was someone she could turn to with every complicated and conflicting sentiment that was bursting inside her mind and find no judgement. For every pinch of resentment, and stab of remorse, and ache of irrational anger, and fierce twist of antipathy, no one in all of Avonlea could hope to understand better than Gilbert Blythe._

_He could probably even understand her warring desire to be left alone while at the same time have those she treasured close._

_It was why she hadn’t scolded him for skiving off school these last few days._

_He’d been helping Marilla with the funeral arrangements (something Anne hadn’t been able to bring herself to attempt) and then helping Jerry on the farm, because even though Mathew was dead there were still fields to tend, animals to mind, fences to mend, and gardens to weed. And though he’d been at Green Gables every day since that awful morning, Anne hadn’t talked to Gilbert much except to say ‘good morning’ or ‘would you like a cup of tea?’ or ‘goodbye’._

_She did want to talk to him, about everything. About Mathew, and her grief, and fear, and anger. And then she wanted to talk about school, the upcoming exams, and ask if Gilbert had finished his admissions essay to Redmond. She wanted to ask over Bash and Mary and Mat—Baby Lacroix, and the orchard and their business dealings with Mr. Barry…_

_She wanted to talk about_ them _. Really talk about what they meant to each other, what promises were hidden in those tender and torrid kisses, what feelings curled around their hearts when they were in the same room together, and what their future together looked like. She wanted to know if they had the same dream of a house by the sea with flowers in the garden, friends in the parlour, and each other ensconced in the happy home._

_But there was so much she wanted to know, and so much that she was feeling, emotions at opposite ends of a vast, complicated spectrum, that she chose to remain silent instead. There were too many passions bubbling within her at once that Anne could only expend the energy to focus on one at a time, and so she opted to bask in her grief and let that feeling encapsulate her until it dried her out._

_So even though Gilbert was just a few yards away in the family garden, his sleeves rolled up as he rooted around the potatoes and pulled out the ripe ones, and sprinkled out eggshells around the tomato plants to keep the slugs away, and watered the radishes, Anne didn’t call out to him, even though part of her craved for him to look up at her and smile._

_“Well, I can see why you’re so distracted by the scenery,” Cole teased, peering over Anne’s shoulder to watch as Gilbert bent over to fight with a particularly stubborn weed. “Have you finally come to your senses and accepted that Gilbert has a crush on you?” he wondered, resting his chin on her shoulder, managing to make Anne chuckle for a brief moment._

_“I don’t like admitting when I’m wrong,” she offered, “but I’m starting to suspect there may have been a hint of truth in what you said to me that day.”_

_“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert just declared I was right and there’s not a soul around to hear it,” Cole grumbled. “I’m not even sure Diana will believe me when I tell her. And if I’m not mistaken – which I never am – it looks like Gilbert isn’t the only one with a crush.”_

_“No, he isn’t,” Anne confessed easily, because many things were easy with Cole._

_With Diana and the rest of the girls there would be screaming and carrying-on and good natured ribbing. With Marilla there would be motherly concern, but also approval since Marilla liked Gilbert very much. With Bash and Mary there’d be hugs and cheers and braggings of ‘being right’ and ‘knowing all along’. With Mrs. Lynde there would be hours of lectures on propriety and courting practices and talk of short engagements. With Ms. Stacy there would be congratulations, but also serious discussion of ambitions and colleges on different provinces._

_But with Cole, there was only the truth and acceptance._

_“Well,” he said in her ear, clearly not anticipating that Anne would be so straightforward. “What are you going to do about it?”_

_Moving away from the window (and never seeing that Gilbert chose that moment to look up, the boy’s brows creasing with jealousy when he saw Cole standing in Anne’s bedroom; he didn’t even wave back when the young artist waved down to him, the petty rudeness making Cole chuckle under his breath) Anne looked between her empty closet and the heaps of dresses she’d piled on her bed._

_Picking one up, the green one with checkered cuffs and collar, the one that reminded her of the canopy of leaves from the entwined maple trees in Hester’s Garden, Anne slowly moved back to her closet and hung the dress up._

_“Nothing,” she answered, and then spent the next few minutes in complete silence as she moved all her clothes back to her closet, Cole following suit and helping as Anne reorganized her wardrobe with crestfallen determination…_

* * *

“Anne?”

Jolted from her memory, Anne turned to Mr. Roberts and saw that he was holding an envelope out to her. It had a gold wax seal and was very thick, no doubt the encasement of a dozen pages. It also clearly had something of weight inside, the long cream envelope lagging to the right as Mr. Roberts held it firmly in the centre. With a steady hand, Anne reached across the desk and took the envelope from the lawyer, her grey eyes finding the familiar scrawl of her name in pencil on the smooth paper, and then she started to shake, just a few little tremors, when she recognized the writing as Mathew’s.

“Mr. Cuthbert’s instructions were very clear: ‘ _deliver this letter into Anne’s hands at the time of my passing_ ’.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” she said solemnly, tucking the envelope into her satchel, burying it to the bottom in the hopes she might forget it was even there.

It was strange to think Mathew had been planning for his death. Though he wasn’t clairvoyant and knew he would die of a heart attack in his sleep, he had suspected his time on earth was limited at least a year-and-a-half-ago when he’d last updated his will, or so Mr. Roberts had claimed. Was that when he’d written the letter for Anne?

She didn’t want to know.

“Is there anything else?” Marilla asked, reaching one hand out to take Anne’s, the pair linking fingers as Mr. Roberts spent a few more minutes reviewing details concerning the trust set up in Anne’s name and how he’d have his secretary arrange a meeting with the bank so the pair could get information on how to access funds once Anne started college in the fall.

Then he had Marilla sign several documents, explaining that changes regarding Anne’s ownership would be made to the mortgage on Green Gables, as well as all other documents regarding the management of the farm. And then with the closing of heavy leather ledgers and a chime of two in the afternoon from the cuckoo clock (the only frivolous decoration in the office), Mathew’s affairs were settled and Anne and Marilla were landowners.

It was a hollow transition.

Hands were shaken and follow up appointments were confirmed with the jolly secretary and then Anne and Marilla were leaving the lawyer’s office and finding themselves thrust back into a world that was bustling with life, free from the sober stillness that had ensconced them for much of the day.

“Well, I suppose there’s time for a quick lunch before we’re due to meet Gilbert at the station,” Marilla said, looking to her daughter, disappointed when the mention of their handsome neighbour didn’t bring a smile to her face as it so often had before. But then again, only six days ago there were a lot of things that had had the power to make Anne smile. Marilla only hoped her daughter would find her way out of her sorrow and rediscover the joys in life. She didn’t believe in wallowing, but knew Anne was different. The girl felt sadness in such a contrary way to Marilla’s mastery of her grief that the older woman sometimes worried she was not the right guardian to see Anne through her life.

Mathew had always understood the girl better, after all.

Still, it didn’t do to dwell on what would be better when it was impossible. It was Mathew that was gone and Marilla who was left behind and because that was the way of it there was only one thing Marilla could do.

She had to try.

“Let’s find a place near the shore,” the older woman suggested, adjusting her shawl and starting down the sidewalk. “Someplace we can view the sea as we take our tea.”

“I’d like that,” Anne said, keeping pace with her mother.

“Would you?” Marilla asked, pausing to look her daughter in the eye, nearly sighing when she noticed a spark of Anne’s passion alight in her grey eyes before they became overcast with the sober manner that had taken hold of her of late. It gave Marilla hope that she and Anne would get through this loss together. “Well, let’s be off,” she said, grinning when Anne looped their arms together. “The sea has great scope for the imagination, don’t you think?”

And Anne couldn’t help the half-hearted amused huff that emitted from her freckled nose.

* * *

“I don’t know what to do,” Gilbert confessed, crestfallen as he stared into his tepid tea, the brew having gone cold while he’d poured his troubles out to his companion. “She knows I care, she must by now, but she won’t let me get close enough to help. Every time I try to go to her something gets in the way, or she just ignores me full stop. But I’ve been helping at her farm as much as I can, hoping maybe she’ll come find me or give some sign she wants to talk. But it’s been nothing for days, barely even a ‘hello’. What am I doing wrong?”

“Well,” the airy lilting voice of his fair company commented, “for starters I would say that inviting a lady to afternoon tea –”

“You invited me.”

“—only to spend the entire hour in plaintive heartsickness over another girl is certainly not the best decision you’ve made. But I suppose you are young –”

“I’m only three years your junior, Winnie.”

“—and hopelessly in love besides, so that is likely what has inspired this boorish behaviour.”

“Have I been boorish? Really?” Gilbert asked, giving his friend a contrite grin.

“I’ll forgive you this once,” Winnie assured, taking a dainty bite from the shortbread they’d ordered with their tea. Gilbert couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips, his heart feeling just a bit lighter than it had all day as he looked over at his confidant.

Winifred Rose had always been able to make Gilbert feel at ease, right from their initial meeting when he’d wandered into Dr. Ward’s clinic on the first day of his internship over a year ago and stumbled upon the young woman scolding the clinic’s skeleton (which she had christened Mr. Bones). She’d introduced herself as casually as if getting caught speaking to a pile of bones was old hat, smiling prettily at the new intern. Gilbert remembered her handshake was firm when her manicured nails and smooth skin suggested she would be of a more delicate constitution, but then again everything about Winnie suggested the opposite of her robust personality.

She was the very model of a fashionable lady. She lived in a sprawling three-storey house on Brighton Road, the drive flanked by manicured boxwood shrubs and the door framed in custom stained glass panels in the shape of climbing roses. She wore dresses imported from Paris, and shoes from Florence, and gloves from London. She spoke four languages, played pianoforte, and could discuss the great works of Renaissance masters for hours. Her complexion was smooth as silk, her lips red as cherries, and her eyes were a glittering blue-green as mesmerising as they were mysterious. Her hair was golden blond, with perfect corkscrew curls that framed her heart-shaped face while the rest was scooped up in a style one would expect to see on the streets of New York City but never in a quaint Charlottetown medical practice.

And perhaps it was her presence in the clinic that made her beauty stand out all the more, for surely a woman of such fashion and fortune had better ways to spend her time than doing something as common as working, even if it was as the clerk to a respected city doctor.

But Winnie loved her job.

Besides the fact that she liked people and the clinic provided a wonderful opportunity to meet strangers from all walks of life, she enjoyed learning about medicine. It made her feel close to her fiancé, she’d once told Gilbert over their usual cup of afternoon tea.

The fiancé, one Jeremy Cork by name, was a medical student who was in his second year of study at the University of Toronto and was hoping to become a surgeon. Winnie wanted to support his lofty ambitions by being able to talk with him about his work, which prompted her to take the job with Dr. Ward. She rather enjoyed the tales of sutures, incisions, and operation theatres that her husband-to-be included in his letters, often sharing the anecdotes with Gilbert.

Gilbert had once asked Winnie if she wished to pursue medicine and become a doctor or nurse herself, but she assured him she was more than happy to be a doctor’s wife and helpmate. Her fiancé would never quash her ambitions to join him in the operating room if that was her true desire, but Winnie preferred her life as it was, intending to assist in running her husband’s practice and household.

The idea of so intimately weaving your work and homelife with a spouse, and them being able to do the same, was appealing to Gilbert.

Much as he enjoyed speaking of his doctor dreams to Anne, he enjoyed listening to her hopes of being a teacher and wondered if she had made space for him in those ideas. He could certainly see the two of them shooting lesson plan concepts back and forth, drafting reading lists, helping her mark tests, even editing her stories and articles as much as he could see Anne proof-reading his research papers, or engaging in long debates over experimental medicine, or being his companion at many a future medical conference or fundraising dinner.

It was a future he wanted so badly he could hear Anne’s matured laugh, smell her familiar perfume, and see his mother’s ring on her finger. If he could only find the time and place and words to talk to her about it, and not just the future but the present, the good and the bad that had happened to her over the last week, then Gilbert was certain that they could finally start taking those first steps towards that bright dream.

He wanted to help Anne more than anything.

He knew she was suffering enormously over Mathew’s death and he had felt as if she’d wanted to talk to him about it – about the loss of a father – more than once in the past few days, but something was holding her back. He’d hoped they might talk at Green Gables after the funeral since it was impossible to steal a moment at the viewing or when they’d all left the house the morning of the burial, Gilbert walking alongside Mathew’s coffin with the rest of the pallbearers while Anne and Marilla were enfolded amongst friends and neighbours behind the sombre wagon.

He hadn’t dared look at Anne during the service, not because he didn’t want to, but because he’d gotten lost in his own goodbyes to the man he’d so respected. Losing Mathew was a blow to Gilbert’s own aching heart, for it was another man in his life that had died; another father figure gone forever.

And so Gilbert had allowed himself to mourn, to feel the new hollowness left behind by Mathew’s parting, to simply exist in the moment and be sad, because it _was_ sad, and not just for Anne and Marilla, but for him, for Bash and Mary, for little Mathew who wouldn’t know the man he’d been named after, and for all of Avonlea, the village having lost some of its gentleness now that it had lost Mathew Cuthbert.

All these thoughts had distracted Gilbert so severely that it wasn’t until a cup of lemonade had been placed in his hands by Ms. Stacy that he’d realized that Anne hadn’t returned with the congregation from the cemetery. Her beautiful red hair – pinned back in a single braid with a black ribbon woven into the tresses – was unaccounted for, and worry had curdled anxiously up his throat. He’d been about to slip out of the farmhouse and search for Anne when the back door had swung open and the missing dryad herself had wandered in, Cole McKenzie at her side, their former school chum keeping a sturdy arm across Anne’s shoulders as he’d helped her to a chair in the parlour.

Gilbert had commented that he was glad to see Cole again, and gladder still that Anne wasn’t face down in a ditch, hoping a little teasing might encourage her to speak with him. But, as it was impossible to get Anne Shirley-Cuthbert to stop talking when she was in a loquacious mood, so too was it a hopeless endeavour to get her to talk when she’d resolved to stay silent.

She hadn’t spoken to Gilbert that day, or the day after, or the day after. Anne held her tongue and it was disconcerting.

“What advice do you have for me, Winnie? I’m desperate,” Gilbert pleaded, hoping his friend’s point of view could enlighten him.

“I’m afraid all I can tell you is that you need to give her time,” Winnie reported ruefully. “Surely you remember what it was like when you lost your father?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I want her to talk to me.”

“But were you very eager to start chatting up with your neighbours and friends the second you’d laid your father to rest?”

“No,” Gilbert agreed, remembering that his coping mechanism when his father had died was to skip town and jump on the first ship leaving the island.

“Then it’s unfair to expect it of her, isn’t it?”

“I just want her to know that she can talk to me when she’s ready,” Gilbert stressed, thinking of how bitter he’d felt when he’d spotted Cole McKenzie in Anne’s room a few days ago, knowing their former classmate had managed to get Anne to talk to _him_ – about what, Gilbert couldn’t guess. Anne was always rather private of her conversations with Cole, and it was something Gilbert had never begrudged her. He expected Anne to have friends, both boys and girls, beyond him, but he’d truly thought he and Anne were close in a way she wasn’t with the rest of her kindred spirits. It hurt, more than he was willing to admit, that Anne seemed to find comfort in Cole when Gilbert had been there the whole time – right from that bleak Sunday morning – and for whatever reason she felt she couldn’t go to him.

“You’ve said she’s your best friend,” Winnie added, giving Gilbert a fond look across the table. “Anne knows she can talk to you, so she will. When she’s ready.”

Huffing, Gilbert sat back in his chair and took a sip of his tea, grimacing at how cold it had gotten. He supposed Winnie was right about the matter and he would simply have to find a way to keep patient until Anne came to him.

“You need a distraction,” Winnie decided, refilling their cups with fresh, hot tea, “and a change of topic is just the thing to cheer you up, I think. Tell me, how are the college applications going?”

“I thought you wanted to cheer me up,” Gilbert quipped sardonically, his rueful expression only making Winnie wink at him over the rim of her teacup. She knew perfectly well he was struggling with finishing his essay and securing a third letter of reference. However, if Winnie wanted to tease, Gilbert knew the perfect ammunition to fire back with. “And how are the plans for the Roses’ grand return from Europe?”

“Touché,” Winnie replied, only grimacing a little at the reminder that her mother and father were due back from Paris the Wednesday after next. The couple had been abroad for a year and had decided that they would spend two weeks in Charlottetown with their only child before returning to their house in Ottawa where Mr. Rose would resume his duties at parliament. “Actually, it is rather fortuitous you mention them, Gilbert, as my father’s latest letter has delivered the most interesting news.”

“Do tell.”

“It seems that an old friend of his, Leonard Wilson, has just been appointed to president of Redmond University,” Winnie reported with deliberate tact.

“Really?” Gilbert asked, leaning forward, clearly interested and slowly catching on to what his friend might be implying.

“Mmm. Father will be visiting his dear chum sometime before the end of the month. I’m sure they’ll talk of all manner of stuffy subjects, their good old college days and the like, but as father was working with Adam Crooks in the Department of Education I suspect Mr. Wilson might seek his advice on any number of things concerning the university…perhaps even admissions.”

“Winifred Rose you sly weasel,” Gilbert said, laughing as Winnie kicked his shin under the table.

“I’m sure father would be more than happy to sing your praises to Mr. Wilson. I’ve mentioned you enough times in my letters that they are quite keen to meet Dr. Ward’s fine, brilliant, and ambitious intern.”

“And there’s the rub,” Gilbert said, impressed with Winnie’s careful scheming.

“No rub,” she insisted, dabbing daintily at her mouth. “Only, it would mean the world to me to have a little assistance in keeping them entertained while they visit. And certainly, father getting to know you better couldn’t hurt.”

“Especially when he has friends in high places,” Gilbert finished. “Winnie, I do believe you’re bribing me.”

“A lady doesn’t bribe, Mr. Blythe,” Winnie said with mock sternness. “A lady creates opportunity.”

“For herself.”

“And for her friends.”

Gilbert absorbed Winnie’s words and took a few silent moments to mull them over.

She was suggesting he help her to keep the Roses content and in return her father would put in a good word for him with the president of his top choice university. It certainly was an opportunity impossible to pass up, and he’d be helping a friend besides. Gilbert knew Winnie’s parents could be overbearing and their impending homecoming was something that weighed on her mind, or so she’d confided in him. He wanted to help her and she was clearly asking. And while he would have gladly given his aid with no payment necessary, the carrot she was dangling before him was truly a once-in-a-lifetime offer.

He wanted to be accepted to college under his own merits, but Gilbert knew enough of the world to understand that it was just as important to seize the moment when it arrived.

“There’s a county fair just outside my village the weekend after your parents arrive,” Gilbert offered, leaning over the table to whisper at Winifred in conspiratorial glee. “Do you think the Roses would be up for a day of cake contests, quilt sales, frying pan toss, and fortune tellers?”

“I think a county fair is a marvelous distraction,” she offered, reaching out to tap Gilbert’s hand in an affectionate thanks that could have been misconstrued as toeing the edge of flirtatious, but then Winnie did so enjoy riling up the old busybodies. 

“I could introduce you to Bash and Mary, finally,” Gilbert said, checking his pocket watch and realizing that he and Winnie were late getting back to the clinic. He waved a waiter down for the check and helped Winnie place her shawl over her shoulders.

“And your new little nephew,” Winnie added. “What did they name him, again?”

“Mathew,” Gilbert said, managing to conceal the sadness he felt just saying the name, its meaning still attached to a different person.

“Gift of God,” Winnie said. “That’s lovely.”

“Yes,” Gilbert agreed, and then quickly changed the subject back to the fair, arranging all the details of time and place and pickups, even asking Winnie if her parents enjoyed dancing as the fair hosted a barn dance in the evening. Thinking of the dance had Gilbert thinking about Anne. He’d asked her to the county fair dance the night of their first kiss. She’d said ‘yes’, face flushed and lips swollen and the pearls in her red hair shimmering under the moonlight.

He wondered if she remembered.

He wondered if she still wanted to dance with him.

But Winnie said to be patient, and when it came to Anne, patience wasn’t always the easiest to hold on to, but Gilbert resolved to take his friend’s advice and wait. Because when it came to Anne, Gilbert was also certain he could find it within himself to wait for her forever.

* * *

Anne was in a foul mood as she marched up Green Gable’s drive.

The sun was almost down and her stomach cramped with hunger. If she’d accepted Gilbert’s offer of a ride from Bright River back to her home she’d no doubt be safely tucked inside Green Gables, her belly contently full of Marilla’s roast, her body warmed with a cup of tea, and the clench of the day’s wretched business slipping from her shoulders like a cloak as night began its slow sweep across Avonlea.

But that was not the case.

Anne had let her temper get the best of her again, and so she found herself making the long trek home on foot.

It would be easy to say it was all Gilbert’s fault, and Anne had told herself as much, at least for the first hour of her walk. But as the second hour passed and she neared home, her ire had cooled some and she was able to reflect and admit that perhaps she’d overreacted. It had just been such a wearisome day, and Gilbert was only trying to be considerate, but as the train had pulled out of the Charlottetown station and he’d turned to innocently ask Marilla how everything went at the lawyer’s office Anne had snapped…

* * *

_“We have to return for an appointment with the bank,” Marilla said, Gilbert nodding at her words. “Anne’s schooling has been secured, but there are other funds and accounts that need moving or closing. It’s all very…overwhelming, if I’m honest.”_

_“I’d be happy to review any documents, Ms. Cuthbert,” Gilbert replied congenially. “I can even accompany you to the bank if you’d like; financial jargon can be confusing and the more ears taking in the information the better.”_

_“That’s very kind, Gilbert. Thank you.”_

_“Exactly how is this any of your business?” Anne practically barked, grey eyes gone steely as she pinned Gilbert with an unforgiving glower._

_“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert!” Marilla cried, mortified by her daughter’s rudeness._

_“What?! Mathe—_ he _was our family, not Gilbert’s. So his affairs are ours to mind, no one else’s. You’re just pushing yourself in where you’re not wanted.”_

_“I’m just trying to help!” Gilbert insisted, angry and confused._

_“We don’t need it! Remember?”_

_The reminder of the insult that was the source of their last argument weeks ago had Gilbert closing his mouth and sitting back in his seat, defeated._

_There was no victory in Gilbert’s loss, for Anne had wanted him to keep fighting with her, to hurl her insults back at her, to make her feel something other than sad and lonely. Whenever they fought, no matter the subject or depth of wound they might inflict, at least Gilbert always made her feel something whether it was anger, or irritation, or passion. But this time, he’d managed to make her feel like the worst human being on the face of the earth, and all without saying a single word. Rather, it was a single look._

_A look of quivering hurt._

She _had made him feel that in her selfish drive to force him to make her feel something outside of her grief._ She _was a horrible person, and surely Gilbert must see that. He’d never want her now, not as a sweetheart or a friend._

_And worst of all, Anne was so muddled and bogged down in her own chaotic mess of feelings, that she wondered if Gilbert no longer liking her wasn’t for the best._

_Marilla began to lecture Anne in earnest, but the redhead paid no mind. Anne crossed her arms and stared out the window, knowing she was being impertinent, but her ire was riled and she felt as if she wanted to break something. In all her years she couldn’t remember being so angry, and it frightened her a little. So Anne kept her lips sealed and allowed the train to rock her back and forth as it clacked along the tracks through the vast countryside._

_The motion was soothing, but every time she thought she might have calmed she’d feel Gilbert look at her and knew his hazel eyes would be large and sad, his lips thin and tightly pressed, not frowning but not smiling either. The carefreeness that so often alighted his face was gone, snuffed out by Anne’s brutal words._

_She wanted to say she was sorry every time he looked at her, but pride and grief and so many other unnamed forces kept the apology lodged in her throat. The idea that she’d hurt someone she had such an affectionate regard for made her feel sick the entire ride back to Avonlea, and when the trio disembarked from the train Anne knew she was unworthy of accepting Gilbert’s offer of a ride back to Green Gables. She didn’t deserve his charity and was resolved to making the long walk back to her home to try and clear her head, the stew of discouraging feelings curdling when neither Gilbert nor Marilla tried to talk her out of her decision…_

* * *

It had been hard to take those first few steps.

The well travelled path from Bright River to Avonlea was the same one Mathew had taken Anne down the day they’d first met.

It was the road where she had chatted endlessly to the bashful man who hadn’t a clue how to tell the lively little redhead that there had been a mistake and she was not the boy he’d been expecting. Anne liked to believe that it was on this road that Mathew had grown to love her, because she had certainly come to love him along this picturesque path. Somewhere around the White Way of Delight, she remembered touching the soft cherry tree petals and telling Mathew they looked like a bridal veil. He’d humoured her fanciful imaginings, and right at that quiet moment as she admired the blossoms, her feelings simply clicked and she knew that she loved Mathew Cuthbert as dearly as she’d have loved her own father had she any memory of him.

Perhaps that was why the pain was so wrenching.

Blood or no, Mathew Cuthbert had been her father, and now he was gone and she missed him. She missed him so much it was like missing a limb, only it felt as if the appendage was still attached to her, giving harsh cramps and pinches at her soul unexpectedly day after day. Gilbert had told her about phantom pain once, and that must be what Anne was experiencing for she certainly believed herself to be haunted by Mathew’s memory.

A memory she was still unsure was real.

The stories she’d been told of him continued to plague her, mischievous poltergeists that caused her both sorrow and discomfort as she tried to envision all the many Mathews that had been presented to her and work out how they’d combined to become the man she’d known as a soft-hearted soul. Anne had given herself headaches trying to make sense of Mathew’s life, and now the discussion with Mr. Roberts added the burden of Mathew’s legacy to consider.

Because Green Gables was what Mathew had left to his family.

Besides his sister and Anne, the family farm was what was most dear to Mathew. He’d poured his heart and soul into the very soil of Green Gables. His laugh lines were in the barn, gentle hand in the corn field, and rare but beautiful shy smile in the Snow Queen. Mathew’s spirit touched the land of Green Gables like a sweet dawn dew, and now half of it belonged to Anne and she was terrified.

She’d never wanted to be a farmer.

She’d only ever wanted a home and family, and Green Gables and the Cuthberts had been both. With or without the farm, Anne’s needs for love and belonging had been fulfilled. Green Gables was her home, no doubt, and Marilla and Mathew had become her family, which meant she owed a great debt to her father to do right by his land.

And she had no idea where to begin.

Climbing over the gate (her heart pinching with fondness as she allowed herself a short second to remember how happy she’d been while kissing Gilbert across the rail) Anne prepared herself to endure more of Marilla’s disappointed looks and firm commands to mind her manners when she spotted a figure strolling past the chicken coop, their gait subdued, a watering can in one hand and a bucket of gardening tools in the other.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Jerry, surprised he was still working when the sun was almost set. The farmhand never dwelled at Green Gables past dinnertime unless it was harvest season. But confronted with her friend (her employee, she realized soberly) it occurred to Anne that Jerry had been working round the clock since _that_ Sunday. And his appearance certainly communicated his hard work, his overalls caked in dirt, soil smudged on his cheeks, mud under his nails, the smell of manure and hay clinging to him just as his too small jacket hugged his wide shoulders.

“Someone’s got to keep the farm going,” he answered, sniffing and looking away. “I spent all day in the fields and didn’t have time to tend the vegetable garden. It was important to Mr. Cuthbert that you…his family had good food. I’m just going to water and weed it. Maybe lay some fertilizer. I’ll leave soon.”

“You’ll leave now,” Anne instructed with a gentleness she’d worried was gone from her and was relieved she still possessed. Taking the bucket of tools and watering can from Jerry’s hands, Anne walked briskly to the little family garden and rolled up her sleeves.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jerry protested, hot on her heels.

“You said it yourself, Jerry: you need to take care of the farm. It’s asking too much that you take care of everything on your own. But this…I can help with this. Leave the garden to me.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Jerry asked incredulously.

“I’m a quick learner,” she snapped back, almost as if it were just another day and Jerry was annoying her with his singing as they mucked out the stables. It felt good to have a moment that was familiar, and she was glad it was with Jerry. Refraining from continuing to squabble with her friend, Anne took the watering can and started by showering the cabbages. 

“Get under the leaves,” Jerry said, and rather than take offence at his correcting her, Anne accepted the advice and altered her technique so that the cool liquid parched the soil rather than collected on the fat, green leaves. Jerry watched his friend for a few minutes, and when she moved on to watering the string beans he finally sighed, put his hands in his pockets, and headed for the gate. “You’ll be alright, Anne.”

She didn’t stop her gardening to look up and wish Jerry a good night, but his words gave nourishment to a small seed of hope buried deep in her heart.

She didn’t want to be a farmer. She _wouldn’t_ be a farmer. But until she knew what to do with her share of Green Gables, until she’d talked with Marilla, and apologized to Gilbert, and read Mathew’s letter, and found a way to live with the pain of her father’s loss as easily as she had learned to live with other hurts so deeply rooted they were little more than shadows on the cave wall of her memories, the least she could do was mind the garden.

And as she tended to the little plot of land Mathew had loved so well, Anne thought there might be a chance, small as it was, that she could learn to be happy again.

But first, there were radishes to water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Mathew’s radish legacy lives!
> 
> Also I’m back. Yay!
> 
> But in all seriousness, you can bet Anne is gonna tend the hell out of that garden and submit a radish of a certain size to the county fair’s large vegetable competition, all in the name of Mathew’s enduring memory. 
> 
> And it’s a good thing she’s so keen to learn about gardening since Anne is now part owner in Green Gables…that might come up again down the road. But who knows?! (I do, I totally know). 
> 
> We also got Winnifred in this chapter, but I’m guessing not in quite the way some of you may have been thinking (if you were thinking I’d include Winnie at all). I genuinely like the idea of Winnie and Gilbert being friends, there bantering in a brother/sister sort of way with maybe a tinge of flirting every now and then because they know they’re not interested in each other. In fact, as friends, I thought they worked really well together on the show, which is why I was always so confused that people (specifically Moody) kept referring to them being romantically together (or maybe I was in DEEP denial; that is a very potent possibility). 
> 
> Seriously, it wasn’t until 3x08 that I was like ‘Oh! They’ve been actually courting – like properly – this whole time!’ and even then the talk of them marrying I thought was just Mr. Rose assuming Winnie wanted Gilbert and Mr. Rose just wants his daughter to be happy. I genuinely believed that Winnie wasn’t interested in Gilbert in that way, so you can imagine how shocked I was with that cold open in 3x10 when she was distraught over the rejection. Truly, I was thrown (I watched the episode with my Grandma and we both kept saying how neither of us got the impression Winnie was THAT into Gilbert, or he into her). 
> 
> But, that was the show and THIS is my fan fiction, so I can do as I please with the characters, so Winnie is now a very good friend to Gilbert. So good, in fact, she’s gonna use her connections to help him get into Redmond. And all Gilbert has to do is escort the Roses to the county fair…the same fair he asked to go to with Anne…and right now Anne isn’t talking to him much…
> 
> Can you smell the forthcoming miscommunication in the air? It’s gonna be so good!
> 
> Also, on a side note to this big note: when you look at the ‘Dear Anne’ structure, it’s kinda set up in three parts with a prologue and, eventually, epilogue. The way I see it, the first two chapters are our prologue (they set up so much), then chapters three to nine are Part One. Now we have entered Part Two, which follows the immediate aftermath of Mathew’s death, how Anne processes it, some other side quests that I don’t want to spoil, before launching into Part Three at chapter seventeen (maybe sixteen – we’ll see) and ending with the last chapter acting as the epilogue. 
> 
> I realize this may not make sense now, but as we get more into what I’m calling Part Two, I think it will become apparent. It’s just, there really are three very distinct sections of a larger story happening and they do have very distinct starts and finishes. I’d like to pretend I made these choices consciously, but that would make me a big fat liar. 
> 
> How I love the creative process!
> 
> And now, for what you’re really after:
> 
> Next Chapter: Anne the Gardner! Or the chapter in which Anne is worried about the radishes and everyone else is worried about Anne
> 
> Of course I must salute and love all of my readers. Thank you for taking the time to read this monster of a story (and we’re not even half done!). Also, all you kudos-ers, commenters, bookmarkers, subscribers, and recommenders, thank you very much.


	12. How You Can Accept Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And slowly, the healing begins...

_'Dear Anne,_

_It’s hard to get up once you’ve fallen. Sometimes you fall so low that the effort to rise can take every bit of strength you have. But a lesson I’ve learned many times over in my life is that the harder you fall, the more satisfaction you have when you get back up…’_

* * *

Everyone was worried about Anne...

** Ms. Stacy **

“I’m resigning my position as co-editor of the _Avonlea Gazette_. Effective immediately. I’m sorry for the short notice, and I hope to continue to write for the paper – I’d still very much like to explore a series of interviews with the Mi’kmaq – but I can’t expend my time so freely just now. My family needs me.”

“Of course,” Ms. Stacy said, stunned as Anne stood before her at the front of the class to deliver the difficult news face-to-face. It was certainly not the sort of announcement she had expected on Anne’s first day back at school since Mathew’s death.

The grieving girl looked every bit the young professional as she submitted her written resignation, her pinafore starched stiff, the small puff sleeves of her grey dress fluffed to perfection and the black buttons that adorned the tight cuffs in a uniform line of three down her arm polished so bright they winked like jewels when they reflected the sunlight. Her stockings and boots were a bit worse for wear, dusty, as if Anne had traipsed through dirt the whole morning. She even had a smudge of soil just under her right eye, barely noticeable among the freckles which seemed to be more vibrant and plentiful then when Ms. Stacy had seen Anne last.

“You know, I would understand if you merely needed a sabbatical,” the teacher offered, mirroring Anne’s solid stance, believing decorum and distance was something the young woman needed. “Some time away until yours and Marilla’s affairs are sorted would be manageable, then you could retu –”

“I appreciate it,” Anne interrupted, remaining firm and a bit cold in her speech, “but I’m afraid this is how it must be. Green Gables needs me now, and with schoolwork, exam preparations and the farm, I’m afraid I can’t devote the focus or consideration the _Avonlea Gazette_ needs. However, I gladly nominate both Diana Barry and Josie Pye as possible candidates for my replacement. I think either of them would bring a refreshing point of view to the paper, but more importantly they can offer the required dedication.”

Ms. Stacy nodded, her smile forced and disappointed.

“Thank you, Anne,” she said, because there was nothing else that could be said. Anne had clearly made up her mind and there was no arguing with her. Nodding, Anne returned to her desk and started sorting her books and papers for the day’s lessons, ignoring the surprised looks narrowed in her direction from almost every one of her classmates, all of whom had witnessed the redhead’s discussion with Ms. Stacy.

With forced cheerfulness, Ms. Stacy took up her post as instructor and welcomed the class to another day of intrepid adventure in the realm of knowledge. As she lectured she watched as Anne was attentive as always, taking furious notes, and hanging on to Ms. Stacy’s every word, but Ms. Stacy also noticed how Diana cast several worried looks to Anne, and how Gilbert would shift a concerned stare from Anne then to Ms. Stacy herself, his brow furrowed as if crying out to his teacher ‘ _I don’t understand!_ ’ to which Ms. Stacy could only offer her own helpless shrug of ‘ _Neither do I’_.

When class was dismissed and Anne hurriedly trotted out of the schoolhouse, leaving only those involved with the newspaper behind to organize the next week’s edition, the first order of business was to elect the new student co-editor. And as the members cast their vote, Ms. Stacy silently lamented how she would miss asking Anne’s opinion on articles and layout design, miss watching the spirited redhead debate a story, or offer constructive criticism to a peer’s article, or show the others – again – how to properly lubricate the printing press’s hose.

But more than anything, she wouldn’t miss how, after that day, Anne came to school with dirt rather than ink under her nails…

** Jane, Tillie, Ruby, & Josie **

“Someone has to tell her.”

“We’ve tried.”

“Not hard enough, and not directly. Someone needs to give it to her straight.”

“Ruby, you should do it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can!”

“You have to!”

“I’ll start crying the moment I start trying to speak. I vote Tillie.”

“Why me?”

“She likes you best.”

“Hey!”

“Oh hush! We all like Tillie best.”

“Ruby has a point. Anne might not get so upset if the news comes from someone she likes.”

“Well she’s going to be upset regardless, so I say we send in her _least_ favourite person to tell her so that when she does get mad it won’t matter so badly since she’s not overly fond of the messenger anyway.”

“…why is everyone looking at me?”

“You have to do it, Josie!”

“Oh for goodness sake! Let’s just get Diana to tell her! Diana could tell her the Bronte sisters are mediocre and get away with it without any fuss.”

“Well one of us has to tell her! I cannot listen to another hour long ramble on the deplorable market rate of oats.”

“An hour? You got off easy. I spent an entire afternoon debating the accuracy of the _Farmer’s Almanac_. Do you want to know when the next full moon is, because I can tell you when the next _six_ are!”

“Pine needles make excellent mulch. I know this because Anne told me for three hours! I’m at the point where I would gladly sell my great-grandmother’s silver collection, down to the last teaspoon, if it meant Anne would tell me a rambling, nonsense story about gnomes in the garden rather than her turnips. I want…I want old Anne back.”

The fact that it was Jane Andrews, the least imaginative (and therefore least fond of Anne’s fables) of the gang of girls that made this declaration only proved just how anxious they all were over the severe change that had come over their titian companion…

** Diana **

Diana knew Anne processed her deep emotions with an equally deep intensity that was almost impossible to understand. She knew it would be a long time before Anne could truly come to terms with Mathew’s death, just as she knew to expect that her dear friend would be out of sorts and not seem like herself as she slowly wadded through the trying process of moving on.

The gardening, though, was not something Diana had expected.

“Is this all she does?” Diana whispered in Jerry’s ear as the pair approached Anne one Wednesday afternoon.

“Since coming back from Charlottetown,” Jerry confirmed, the backs of his fingers brushing against the backs of hers. Feeling bold, Diana reached out and squeezed Jerry’s hand, needing the comfort of holding him, even if only for a moment, before she set forth on her mission.

“Hello, Anne,” Diana started, dark eyes wandering over her dear friend’s hunched figure. Her dress was filthy, her hair a mess, there was mud on her stockings and her freckles stood out more than ever, infused by the sun as Anne worked pulling weeds from the vegetable garden.

“Hi,” the redhead greeted, never looking up from her chore of navigating a stubborn weed from the earth. She didn’t even comment her surprise that Diana had managed to skive her after school piano lessons to pay a visit to Green Gables.

“Would you like to go for a walk with me?” Diana tried, afraid to step closer to Anne, worrying she might unforgivably invade her bosom friend’s sacred space. “The Lake of Shining Waters is most resplendent today. We can read Tennyson or write something achingly romantic of our own. Something about a siren falling in love with the fisherman contracted to capture her.”

“That’s beautiful,” Jerry whispered against the shell of her ear, and Diana squeaked when she noticed how close Jerry was standing. Eyes going wide, and Jerry’s own hickory orbs mirroring her realization, both looked back at Anne, expecting her to notice their proximity – their _familiarity_ – but Anne continued to pay more attention to the weed than her friends.

“I’m sorry, Diana, I can’t join you, I’m afraid,” she replied, not a hint of suspicion in her tone. “The garden needs me. I have to remove these blasted weeds or I’m afraid the parsnips may not ripen. And I still haven’t figured out how to eliminate these bothersome grubs. I wonder if Jerry knows.”

“But Anne, I’m right here,” Jerry answered, perplexed at how out of touch Anne was with the world around her.

“Oh! You found him. Thank you, Diana. I think you must be blessed with both the beauty, brains, and speed of the Goddess of the Hunt you’re named for. Jerry! Lend a hand, please.”

Looking over at Diana - for an explanation or permission he wasn’t sure - but when his secret sweetheart shrugged her shoulders, Jerry stepped over the low fence and joined Anne in the garden.

“I suppose I’ll go then,” Diana surmised watching as Anne became absorbed in her conversation with Jerry. “You don’t need me.”

“Hmm? Diana? Did you say something?” Anne asked as she busied herself directing Jerry’s attention to her hand where one of the vexing grubs wriggled.

“No. Nothing at all,” Diana replied, and with a final pinched look of apprehension to Jerry (a look he returned with one of brow furrowing confoundment), she turned from Anne and walked away, her heart breaking with both hurt and worry…

** Jerry **

He found Anne in the hayloft on a Sunday afternoon.

While Sundays were normally Jerry’s day off, he opted to spend his day of rest at Green Gables, catching up on chores he hadn’t been able to complete the week before and trying to get a head start on the week ahead.

It was hard to be the sole overseer of the farm.

Mathew had been teaching Jerry the business of farming, the practical, theoretical, and literal bookkeeping of managing acres of land and turning a profit. The man had been a good teacher, patient, indulgent, and proud, and Jerry felt a strong obligation to do right by his mentor. He had to ensure Green Gables stayed functioning and successful, so that meant, now, he sometimes worked on Sundays.

This Sunday he was going to rotate the hay, and so he climbed the ladder up to the loft only to find Anne there. She was standing near the open loft door, looking out at the farm, her loose braids billowing in the almost summer breeze, eyes trailing across the land as she stared ahead with unblinking intensity.

“Daydreaming again?” he teased, approaching his friend. “What is it this time? Pixies or giants?”

Anne didn’t answer.

“Anne?” 

Again the girl didn’t respond.

Miffed at her behaviour, Jerry started his chore, stabbing the hay with a pitchfork and throwing it down to the barn floor, singing 'Sur le Pont d’Avignon' in his most obnoxious alto and waiting with macabre glee for Anne to start heckling him to stop.

But she didn’t.

So Jerry sang louder, higher, and still Anne didn’t yell at him to cease butchering the lovely tune.

Worried now, Jerry lowered the pitchfork and moved to stand beside his friend, first looking out over the land to see if there was something terrible that had captured her notice, but when he confirmed there was nothing for yards save the alfalfa field, he shifted his attention to Anne and was disturbed by how blank her expression was as she carried on scanning the land with robotic detachment.

That’s when Jerry realized: Anne was lost in her thoughts.

Not lost in her memories, the bad ones that had her shaking like a leaf for long minutes; the ones she refused to talk about, always brushing inquiries off by saying she was fine even when it was apparent she wasn’t. This was different.

Anne was lost in herself, not her past, or future, or even present. She was stuck in some strange state of mind where nothing existed save for the chaos of her sorrow. She wasn’t using her imagination to conjure up fanciful stories of warrior princesses, or unicorns, or kingdoms in the clouds. That magic was barred to her, and if her imagination was tethered then what could possibly save Anne from the whirlpool of unhappy thoughts she was caught in?

She looked out at a cold world with colder eyes, lost and alone and unable to see beyond the veil of reality with her usual vibrancy. Seeing that had Jerry’s heart heaving with dread. Carefully, he reached for Anne, placing an arm across her shoulders, holding her tight to his side, hoping his heat and touch might bring her back from whatever dark torment her mind was conjuring.

After a while, Anne did lean into him, her head finding purchase in the crook of his neck. Her eyes, though, remained locked on the land before them, seeing only what was and not what might, or could, or should, or impossibly be.

She never said a word…

** Bash & Mary **

“He really is too darling,” Marilla cooed, bouncing baby Mathew in her arms, her blue eyes shining with love for the slumbering babe.

“We think so, too,” Bash agreed, biting into a lemon square while Mary sipped her tea.

“Thank you for bringing him to visit so often,” Marilla said, genuine in her appreciation to the couple sat snug on her chesterfield.

At first, Marilla had worried that baby Mathew might not take to her – most babies didn’t – but the first time Mary had placed her little boy in the spinster’s arms the child ceased his wriggling and regarded the woman with large dark eyes, lips pursing as he considered her for a long minute before cooing and promptly falling asleep. And every time since the first, baby Mathew would snooze while Marilla rocked him, truly at peace in the safe hands of his elderly neighbour.

As for Marilla, her heart was utterly besotted to the babe. She loved him instantly in the way a grandmother falls for her grandchildren over and over again, and she was determined to spoil the boy rotten with sweets and kisses and all manner of toys once he was old enough. But for now, Marilla was content to be baby Mathew’s cradle, swaying easily from side-to-side as she cuddled the warm little body close and felt her soul rest easily beside his.

“Marilla!” Anne called out as she noisily entered the house from the back, the screen door slamming in her wake as she wiped her boots on the mat. Anne’s boisterous entrance had Marilla stiffening in her chair, blue eyes casting down to the baby who, thankfully, remained napping.

“We’re just in the parlour, Queen Anne!” Bash called back, chuckling when his wife slapped his chest, her own dark eyes darting to her slumbering baby.

“Hello Mary, Bash,” Anne greeted, the girl looking a little worse for wear, her pinafore sticky with pine needles and sap while loose tresses of scarlet hair stuck to her sweaty neck.

“In the garden again, Anne?” Marilla tutted as she took in her daughter’s state.

“I do believe I’ve finally got a handle on the grub situation,” she replied, hands on her hips in a proud posture as she chose to ignore how distastefully Marilla appraised her. Offering a polite smile, Anne stepped close to her mother so she could peek down at the baby. “He’s so cute,” she said sincerely, admiring his peaceful face.

“You should hold him,” Mary suggested eagerly, almost manic in her exuberance. “Little Mathew needs to get to know his Auntie Anne.”

“Oh, but I can’t,” Anne answered back quickly. She saw the glee blink out of Mary’s brown eyes, and the way Bash’s smile shrank, and took a step back. “Can’t hold Baby Lacroix when I’m such a mess, as you can see. I’m covered in mud and sap and I smell like the pigsty; not at all in a proper state to entertain a baby. I should go wash up. Sorry.”

And with that paltry excuse, Anne dashed out of the room, feet hammering up the stairs and the door to her room closing so firmly it rattled all of the adults in the parlour. It hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that Anne hadn’t held her godson since the night of his birth, or that she never called him Mathew…

** Marilla **

It was the heavy pelt of rain on the roof that roused Marilla from a light sleep sometime after midnight. Locking her shutters, Marilla lit a candle and wandered to Anne’s room to check her daughter’s window was closed. When she gently creaked the door open, she tutted when she spotted the open window, the pane sopping wet and fat drops of rainwater trickling down the wall. She went to close it, but Marilla only made it a few paces in the room, for when she glanced at the bed, expecting to see a dozing Anne, she was met with perfectly undisturbed blankets and pillows bereft of a slumbering redhead.

Anne wasn’t in bed.

Heart leaping, Marilla dashed down the stairs, telling herself she’d find Anne making a late night cup of tea, or warming a pot of milk to help her sleep, or perhaps she’d fallen asleep in the parlour while reading, or was bent over the table working on homework she’d been neglecting.

But Anne wasn’t in the kitchen, or the parlour, or at the table.

Green Gables was dark and silent and Anne was gone.

“Anne!” Marilla yelled, panic working its way over her usual sturdy nerves. “Anne Shirley-Cuthbert you come out this instant!”

Darkness and silence was her only answer.

Springing into action in the way only a mother panicked for the safety of her child could, Marilla made quick work of lighting a lantern, shoving her stockinged feet into Mathew’s old work boots, the haggard galoshes riding up to her knees and two times too large for her petite feet. Then she donned both coat and shawl and raced out of Green Gables and into the storm.

She would saddle Belle and go to the Blythe-Lacroix orchard first. Gilbert and Bash would help with the search without question, no matter the hour of night, and besides, Gilbert was one of Anne’s closest friends. Perhaps he would know a favourite haunt or sanctuary where Anne liked to hide herself.

To get to the barn, Marilla had to approach the garden that had become her daughter’s obsession of late, and as the light from her lantern illuminated the dark, wet night, Marilla noticed a lopsided canopy had been clumsily constructed over the family garden. Filled with hope and fright, Marilla went to the patch of earth, pulled back the sopping linen, and discovered Anne asleep next to the radishes.

With a gruesome cry, Marilla sank into the mud and pulled her daughter into her arms. Anne jolted awake in the violent embrace, disoriented as Marilla squeezed her, helpless to do anything but squeeze back. 

“What were you thinking?!” Marilla demanded, brushing Anne’s wet hair out of her eyes, giving her a harsh little shake. “Do you have any idea of the fright you’ve given me? You weren’t in your room in the middle of the night and I thought you’d been spirited off, or run away, or hurt!”

“I was only trying to protect the garden,” Anne answered, crying as she buried her head against Marilla’s chest, hugging her mother back with identical fierceness.

“The garden? Anne! You’ll catch your death sleeping in a storm. I know you’re prone to flights of fancy but I did believe you had more common sense in that big brain. The garden doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that when Mathew loved it so much?!” Anne bellowed, her voice shrill over the pounding of the rain.

“Mathew didn’t love this garden!” Marilla yelled back.

“Yes he did! He did because he loved us!” Anne declared, her voice cracking as she unleashed her own wild storm of sorrow. She threw her weight against Marilla and raged, crying and screaming and letting a deluge explode from her spirit.

And Marilla did what mothers always did when their children were in the depths of despair: she held her tight and they rode out the storm together…

** Gilbert **

While Anne was somewhat aware that her family, friends and neighbours were worried about her, Gilbert’s concern was the one she felt more ardently than the rest. Perhaps it was because, unlike Ms. Stacy’s empathetic understanding, her friends’ polite mindfulness, Diana’s sturdy company, Jerry’s awkward support, the Lacroixs’ gentle attention, or Marilla’s reliable presence, Gilbert’s existence was within Anne’s bubble of grief rather than without, impossible not to see.

He was still coming to Green Gables regularly to help Jerry with the farm, always leaving a piece of himself behind, breadcrumbs for Anne to find so that she might eventually make her way back to him.

One evening when she’d returned home after a long walk, she’d spotted Gilbert’s hat on the peg by the door, forgotten when he’d stopped by to deliver a cobbler Mary had made. Another time, Anne had found Gilbert’s bookbag slouched by Butterscotch’s stall, left there when he’d come early in the morning to help Jerry replace the hinges on the stable doors. She’d returned the satchel to him at school, their encounter littered with cordial greetings and stilted conversation, both talking merely to talk, but not saying anything.

Anne missed saying things to Gilbert; missed him saying things to her.

She wanted to say she was sorry for what she’d said on the train, for being so unforgivably mean, for keeping him at a distance as she tried to manage her grief. It had taken a preposterously long time for Anne to fully understand – and then accept – that pushing Gilbert away because she was afraid he would make her happy when all she wanted to be was sad only served to make her utterly miserable. 

She’d realized this one overcast morning when she’d sleepily waddled to the vegetable garden as had become her habit, intent on watering the plants, checking the soil for mold, and picking anything that was ripe enough for the taking. When she’d approached the garden, Anne thought she’d imagined the two full buckets of water, watering can, harvesting basket with trowel, fork and shears nestled inside, and a pair of gardening gloves idling at the edge of the vegetable patch, waiting for her. But they were all there, each item a solid, tangible thing; everything she needed to work in the garden. It warmed Anne’s heart that someone had gone to the trouble of laying out all her tools with such care, and she knew in an instant it had to be Gilbert. There was no one else as considerate towards her, to be sure, but also no one else could inspire such a fluttering of giddy joy within Anne’s soul to burst forth from the miasma of heartache that had ensconced her spirit. This small kindness was the crack that let in the light, and just as Jerry’s simple words of many days ago had caused hope to flower within Anne, so too had Gilbert’s thoughtfulness allowed Anne to realize that she could, and would, survive Mathew’s death. 

While she had spent hours mourning for Mathew, she’d yearned in equal measure with similar ferocity for the balm of her best friend; for Gilbert’s strong embrace, and his sympathetic eyes, and his bad jokes that never failed to make her laugh, and his comforting smell of honey, apples, and earth, and the way his smile made her heart flutter, and how when they were together the world felt right.

Nothing felt right now that Mathew was gone, but that dreadful wrongness was only exacerbated by Anne’s distancing from Gilbert. She wanted to feel like the Anne she’d once been, not this wretched Anne she’d become, and she knew the first step to finding the old Anne was seeking Gilbert’s forgiveness. Only an apology didn’t seem right, not when her temper had instigated her to say such vicious things on that damnable train ride. She needed to think hard over the words she would express to Gilbert. They needed to be perfect in conveying her repentance.

Luckily, Anne had discovered that working in the vegetable garden was conducive to thinking. As she scrunched her fingers into the moist earth, pinched dead leaves off healthy stalks, swatted bugs away, and pulled ripe food from the ground and placed potatoes, carrots, onions, and cabbages into her basket, she found her mind slipping into an easy peace where she could explore her thoughts, examine her emotions, and most blissfully of all, imagine.

Like the vegetables she nurtured and watched grow day after day, so too did Anne find her imagination returning to her little by little with each visit to the garden. She was so relieved when she caught herself whispering a fanciful story of a family of caterpillars pilgriming to a briar patch to the tomatoes that she’d had to pause her weeding so she could cry great fat tears of relief. A small piece of old Anne had returned, and surely that had to mean that she was finally healing from the broken state Mathew’s departing had left her in. She was inspired to return to the garden and work, and think, and imagine, believing her stories might be of some comfort to the vegetables that were unquestionably missing their former curator.

The Friday afternoon before the county fair, Anne was in the garden again, happily digging around what she suspected was the largest radish on the island. As she scooped soil away from the thick green stalk and sunk her fingers into the earth, feeling the hard healthy meat of the root vegetable, Anne began to laugh, regaling the radish with her imaginings of the long, lazy summer days that were rapidly approaching.

“May I help?”

Anne jumped at the intrusion, grey eyes darting to her left and spotting Gilbert easily, the boy having walked up to the small fence that surrounded the garden, but not daring to breech the threshold without Anne’s permission. He looked radiant, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and curls askew, skin bronzed by the sun and hazel eyes trained on her. He kept a respectful distance, standing very still as he waited for Anne’s answer, and it made her swallow thickly when she realized he was expecting her to send him away.

But Anne was tired of sending Gilbert away.

She was done being without him.

“Please,” she said, an olive branch, one that Gilbert took greedily as he moved towards her, crouched down on the opposite side of the radish, and started digging. Anne watched him work for a moment, admiring his chin like she always did, and his focus as his eyes remained intent on his hands as they worked deeper and deeper into the soil, seeking the bottom of the impressively long and large vegetable.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said, arms sunk into the dirt up to his elbow.

Anne hurried to catch up, digging furiously on her side of the radish so they could pull the massive vegetable out together. With a slow, lumbering lurch, Anne and Gilbert grunted concurrently as they wrested the radish from the earth, the force of their heave throwing off their balance, the pair falling hard onto their sides.

“Are you alright?” Gilbert asked, chuckling as he shook dirt from his hair, lifting his head to peer at Anne around the radish's girthy maroon trunk.

“I’m fine,” Anne replied, one hand caressing the rough skin of the vegetable between them. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at her, his face soft, smile relaxed, skin flushing just the barest trace, and his eyes…he had bumblebees in his eyes again, and Anne sighed as she watched the playful gold flecks wink about the mossy green and brown irises that were appraising her with such adoration that she chided herself brutally for ever believing that it was better to keep Gilbert at a distance for the sake of her sadness.

The point of sadness was that there had to be a happiness that came after it, and no matter how much Anne thought she wanted to remain morose and grieve suitably, melancholy was contrary to her wild spirit. She’d survived the death of her parents, isolation and neglect at the orphanage, abuse at the Hammonds, and disappointment as one family after another barred their doors to her. A life like that would dampen anyone in pessimistic sorrow, but not Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

Through it all, she’d imagined, and learned, and wondered at the world, and made friends with trees, and named flowers, and told herself stories, and hoped. It was the hope that truly fuelled her, and it was that same hope that led her to Avonlea, and Green Gables, and Mathew. It was hope that would lead her forward, to a place where Mathew’s gentle hugs and kind smile would remain treasured memories, but his noble spirit would live on forever, guiding her every minute of the rest of her days. And right now, that hope was pointing Anne to Gilbert.

Swallowing the remorseful tears that threatened to spill over, Anne opened her mouth and prepared to launch into a poetic apology, to give Gilbert the words he deserved, but a hand on hers stopped the verses eager to spring forth. Gilbert was squeezing her hand, their fingers pressed against the radish, and he was smiling at her the same way he had that night they’d walked to Green Gables dappled in moonshine.

‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ her grey eyes told him sincerely.

‘ _I forgive you_ ,’ his own eyes answered back.

And when she smiled Gilbert laughed, and then Anne laughed, too, and the pair laid down in the Cuthbert garden for quite some time, chuckling amongst the parsnips and beans, their bellies cramping as their mirth erupted, their joined hands remaining comfortably perched on the bulbus radish.

“This radish is spectacular!” Gilbert finally complimented, sitting up to appraise the lopsided monstrosity. “Are you entering it for competition at the fair?”

“I think I will,” she exclaimed, brushing crumbs of dirt off her dress as she got back to her feet. “Mathew always hoped to win that contest. He’d had a rivalry with Jack Mason – he’s a farmer from New Glasgow – going back to when they were boys, and he’d never beaten him at any competition they entered at the fair. It would be a perfect monument to his memory to see his radish take the blue ribbon.”

“I’ve no doubt this will,” Gilbert added, passing the radish over to her like one might hand over a baby. It made Anne think of Baby Lacroix and how Gilbert had probably been cuddling the boy for weeks while she’d cowardly refused to do more than give him a cursory look whenever Mary came by to show her son off. Holding the large radish to her chest had Anne yearning to cradle her little godson, the first time her arms actually ached for that precious weight since the night he’d been born, and she resolved to rectify that yearning as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” she said to Gilbert, chin jutting down to the radish, but her words meaning more than a simple recognition for his assistance with harvesting in the garden.

“I’m happy to help,” he replied, bowing slightly, awkward as he realized he should go, but not wanting to. He made as if to turn and walk away, but his eyes had gotten caught up with Anne’s and now they were staring at each other, knowing they had to part but fighting the pull to leave. However, Gilbert managed to turn on his heel after a time, stepping over the little garden fence and making his way towards the drive.

“Will I still see you at the fair?” Anne asked, her voice high and words rushed, like they had gotten caught in a hiccough. Gilbert looked over his shoulder at Anne, an expression of vulnerable hope shifting into elated delight.

“Well, the prettiest girl in Avonlea promised me a dance, so I can’t let her down,” he answered back, winking, unable to keep from smiling when Anne blushed, his eyes darting quickly to the gate at the end of the drive, and for a moment Gilbert thought he could see the ghosts of past-Anne and past-Gilbert leaving over the railing, arms entwined and mouths sipping from each other. Inspired by the memory, Gilbert walked quickly back to Anne, cupped her elbows in his palms, and leaned forward to press a sweet peck upon her freckled nose. It was only a bit clumsy with the radish between them, but Gilbert succeeded in his gesture and even managed to make Anne smile prettily for his effort. “See you,” he said, and then he was off, leaving Green Gables with a spring in his step.

Anne watched him go for a few paces before making her way back to the house, having to kick on the screen door so Marilla would come and help her.

“Goodness gracious, child,” Marilla commented when she saw the radish Anne wielded. Chuckling, Anne slipped under her mother’s arm and walked into the kitchen. “Is that Gilbert I see?” Marilla wondered, only catching a glimpse of the boy as he hoisted himself over the gate.

“Yes,” Anne answered.

“He seems very happy; almost skipping down the drive. Why’s that?”

“Marilla!” Anne exclaimed, turning to her mother with a proud smile. “Have you ever seen a radish so large in all your days! I am determined it will take top prize at the fair tomorrow.”

And as Anne went on over the radish, the pair washing the maroon root in the sink, they pretended to ignore how Anne’s cheeks glowed with a bashful blush, her grey eyes casting long looks out the window to follow Gilbert’s shrinking figure until he was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm hoping those in need of cheering up might find some joy in this work, 'Dear Anne' has updated a day early!
> 
> And oh my God! This was a killer to write!
> 
> I can’t begin to tell you how many rewrites this chapter saw! When I first drafted it, the fair was included, but as I wrote it just became so long that I had to cut it off for my peace of mind. So, like chapters one and two, I split one great big chapter into two parts. I do not exaggerate when I say it saved my sanity.
> 
> Again, this chapter is a bit of build-up/set-up, much like the previous one. Basically, Anne is forcing herself to be distracted with the radish to avoid having to confront many of her other mixed up feelings. She’s excusing the garden as a means of feeling close to Mathew, but it truly is just frail reasoning to avoid having to really dig down deep (get it? GET IT???!!!) to the root (Oh my God, do you get it????!!!!!) of her own sorrow, and grief, and anger, and confusion. Just like it takes Anne time to nurture the plants and see them grow and get ready for harvest, so too will it take time for her to find the courage to face her fears over confronting her true feelings about Mathew. 
> 
> But she’s already starting to heal.
> 
> After all, her imagination is returning to her, and she’s talking to Gilbert again, and even thought (though didn’t say) of Baby Lacroix as Baby Mathew, so she’s on her way, she’s just taking her time. 
> 
> It was fun to write the varying perspectives for this chapter. It gave me a chance to explore Anne’s relationship with so many different characters from their perspective rather than hers. And I admit here and now: the Josie, Tillie, Ruby, Jane snippet was the most fun to write; I made myself cackle! Which one was your favourite? If you had one, of course…
> 
> I hope things didn’t feel too repetitive with Anne and Gilbert’s apology. I do feel like I circled back to their argument from Chapter Six, especially when Anne had pulled the ‘I don’t need you’ insult again, but this time around Anne is angry because she’s sad and doesn’t know how to process and almost resents that Gilbert has the power to make her happy and she doesn’t think that’s what she wants…wow that sounds SUPER complex! 
> 
> Anyway, Anne is a girl that needs time to figure things out. As for Gilbert, he is quick to forgive Anne most everything, and don’t forget he remembers what it was like to lose a parent, so he does understand better than anyone else all those complicated feelings Anne is traversing. Who knows, maybe a heart-to-heart is in their future (hint, hint!).
> 
> Next Chapter: the county fair comes to Avonlea…it goes maybe not as totally disastrously as you think it will
> 
> Thank you a million times one to all the readers, kudos-ers, commenters, subscribers, and bookmarkers. I adore you all so very much!


	13. Most Unusual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The county fair has arrived, and with it, a little bit of romance, a little bit of angst, and whole lot of misunderstandings

_‘Dear Anne,_

_I hope you laugh heartily, and sing joyously, and dance merrily, and love deeply. And while you may suffer terribly from time to time, I believe you will have an insurmountable collection of glorious moments to compensate for every tear you shed…’_

* * *

The Grenville Parish summer fair was an event unto itself.

The last weekend in June, the various townships ensconced in the survey of land marked as Grenville Parish would gather together and celebrate the beginning of a new season. A different town, or village, or hamlet was chosen each year to host the festivities, and in the summer of 1899 it was Avonlea’s turn.

A massive meadow belonging to the Andrews family was selected as the venue space and work began the moment the snow had melted back in April. For weeks the meadow was raked clean of dead grass, moist leaves, and twigs. Wooden markers were steaked into the ground and string was used to rope off the different areas, making the meadow look like it was being marked up in a crooked survey graph.

Mrs. Andrews liaised with Avonlea, working with the small village council to secure permits, volunteers, and manage funds, while Mr. Andrews handled the business of networking with the council members of the other participating Grenvile Parish towns. Before the May long weekend, every vendor, entertainer, competition and game had been settled and then it was only a matter of waiting.

The big tent was erected a week before the fair would open.

Under the red and white pinstripe cotton, judgements would be made on pastries, breads, cakes, jams, fruits, vegetables, and honey. All manner of livestock would be paraded, measured, weighed and admired before the blue ribbon winners would be sold for breeding. Tea, lemonade and little finger sandwiches would be passed around, fairgoers able to take a seat in one of the many arrayed benches set off to the side and under the protective shade of the colourful canopy. 

The vendor stands were constructed five days before the fair’s commencement, and on the forth day the peddlers from the various villages who had rented a stall arrived and begin the long task of unpacking their wares, setting up camp or securing room and board, and making friends with the local villagers in the hopes of landing a sale before the big day.

The carnival troupe arrived two days before the fair opened, their dozen wagon caravan bringing all manner of entertainers to the meadow. There were jugglers, stilt-walkers, fire eaters, clowns, and fortune tellers. The troupe set up shop, constructing tents of their own where they would put on puppet shows, read tarot cards, and perform magic. There was one man who would guess your weight for a nickel, and a woman who swallowed swords, and a family of mutts that were trained to do jumps and flips. A soapbox was placed in the centre of a ring made of logs, a venue where anyone could stand and recite poetry, or read a passage from a favourite book, or even enact scenes from plays. The games the troupe brought were varied. There was ring toss, and a shooting range, a fishing game, darts, and bobbing for apples, each of the stalls dressed in colourful fabrics to attract the eye. The prizes were just as varied, porcelain figurines, paper rosettes, straw dolls, wood carvings of animals, soap flowers, and copper pennies pressed into medallions.

On the day of the fair, most of Avonlea was arriving to the grounds after breakfast, eager to set up their own stalls, or display their wares, or simply to get first crack at the games. The other fairgoers, those from the surrounding townships, came upon the meadow with ambling frequency until, by noon, it was fair to say that all of Grenville Parish was in attendance.

With a crowd so large it was remarkably easy for one to get lost among the attendees if one had a mind to do so. As it was, two young persons were determined to escape into the throng of people and steal a moment for themselves where eavesdropping little sisters and the critical eyes of judgemental parents wouldn’t find them.

Diana and Jerry were hidden in the shadow of the purple and gold harlequin patterned tent of one of the fortune tellers, able to capture a few precious minutes alone before they would be missed by their families. And families, as it turned out, was very much the pressing topic on the minds of the secret sweethearts.

“I don’t know, Jerry,” Diana admitted.

“You are leaving for Paris in seven weeks!” Jerry said desperately, clutching Diana’s hands in his. “You will be gone two years and when you return they expect you to come back with a husband.”

“You know I won’t! I couldn’t!”

“I do know, but they do not. And that is why we must tell them. Ma chérie…”

Diana hummed when Jerry kissed her, his taste sweet like the peach he’d eaten for breakfast, and she wondered if he was savouring the flavour of butter and cinnamon on her tongue.

“I want everyone to know,” Jerry confessed when they parted, brows cradled against one another. “You’re my girl, oui?”

“Oui, Jerry. Always. Forever,” Diana pledged.

“Then let’s tell them. Your family, my family, Anne and Ms. Cuthbert and all the rest. We belong together.”

“We belong to each other,” Diana added, nuzzling her nose against Jerry’s. “My mother will have a conniption. Father will probably challenge you to a duel.”

“You sound like Anne.”

“I wish I was being fanciful,” Diana huffed. “But, fainting, fighting or no, you’re right, we have to tell them.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Diana decided, startling Jerry as he’d believed Diana would wish to put off the announcement a little longer. “After church, I think. You can approach my father after the service, tell him there’s a matter of great importance you wish to discuss and could you walk with our family back to the house. Once we’re settled in the parlour, we’ll tell them together.”

Jerry kissed Diana again, grateful and aroused by her bravery. He also happened to find her particularly alluring when she took control, and it made him wish desperately that they were ensconced in the hayloft of Green Gables rather than sequestered in the middle of a crowded fair. If they were alone, truly alone, Jerry wouldn’t have to rein himself in. He could press himself boldly against Diana, swallow her moans, be the reason she sighed and gasped and hummed. He could pull her on top of him, her legs straddling his lap as his hands found purchase on her hips and held her in just the right way, at just the right spot, where every movement and kiss and touch thereafter would be in service to her pleasure.

And with that wanton image burned in his mind, Jerry reluctantly stepped back, admiring how beautiful Diana looked with swollen lips and flushed cheeks and eyes blown black with want.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, releasing her hand.

“But you’ll meet me before then, won’t you?” Diana asked, eager to steal another moment with him. “In a few hours?”

“Where?” Jerry asked, just as intrigued and keen.

“Near the Tunnel of Love,” Diana answered coyly. “Under the cherry tree.”

Taking her hand, Jerry pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles.

“Until then,” he promised, and then with a dashing smile, he left.

Diana watched him go, willing the hot pool of need that had bubbled over within her core to cool. She couldn’t go back to her mother with her cheeks flushed with desire, so Diana took a steadying breath and managed to successfully leave the shadow of the fortune teller’s tent and walk a few casual paces before someone called her name.

“Diana!”

Panicked that she’d been found out, Diana slowly turned around with terrified eyes only to find herself accosted fiercely by a familiar force.

“Oh Anne!” Diana exclaimed, returning her friend’s tight hug. “How are you?”

“Ecstatic! Overjoyed! Jubilant! Take your pick! Oh Diana, I feel as if the sun is bursting inside of me!”

“Goodness,” Diana answered, thrilled to see her bosom friend looking so happy. In fact, Diana would say Anne was fairly glowing.

Her skin was radiant, scrubbed clean and just the barest shade of pink with freckles multiple and bright from her weeks working in the Green Gables’ garden, giving her face the appearance of a vast uncharted galaxy with constellations begging to be traced. Her eyes were sparkling, more blue than grey this sunny afternoon, and they were filled with a wonder and delight that had been missing for so long. She’d left her red hair down and loose, the long tresses’ natural waves spilling about her back and shoulders like spun fire, traces of gold, and chestnut, and amber catching the sun.

Her dress was the fresh cheery shade of buttercream and it complemented her glowing complexion. The sleeves ended a few inches past her elbows and a thick cuff was rolled up revealing Marilla’s exquisite needlework, pink, periwinkle and lilac flowers embroidered along the lacy material. The collar of the dress was high and cinched tightly, a perfect bow clasping the fabric together, their friendship locket perched over her chest while white buttons made a line all the way down to Anne’s waist where a belt of pale green rested, the oval clasp made of copper. The skirt was nothing out of the ordinary, though it was cut a bit longer than Diana was used to seeing on Anne. Overall, Diana felt as if she were in attendance to Anne’s debutante ball, watching with pride and awe as her friend showed the world the fine, intelligent, and beautiful woman she was destined to become. 

“I have just been told the most magnificent news. I’m sure I will die for how positively euphoric I feel!”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense!” Diana urged, looping her arm in Anne’s as they walked casually through the fairgrounds, feeling like everything in her life had clicked perfectly back into place now that her dear friend was at her side.

“I’ve just had my fortune told by the marvelous Madam Lyudmila, and it was…oh, Diana!” Anne giggled as she took Diana by the arms and started spinning around, mindless of the people who had to give the twirling friends a wide berth.

“Anne! What has gotten into you?” Diana laughed, unbelievably happy to see her dearest friend in such stellar spirits. “What did Madam Lyudmila say?”

“She told me I would find true love,” Anne announced, pleased as punch, squeezing Diana’s hand. “She said he’s very handsome, and tall, and has eyes that follow me with curiosity.”

“Indeed?”

“And he is a good dancer!”

“Well that narrows it down,” Diana commented, enthralled with how playful Anne was being.

“It certainly does, for I have been asked to share a dance this evening with the handsomest boy in Avonlea,” Anne teased back.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert!” Diana exclaimed, tempted to pinch her friend as they walked past displays of mannequins dressed in the latest city fashions. “Has it happened at long last?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean has Gilbert Blythe finally confessed his feelings for you?”

“You say that as if you’ve suspected he’s had feelings for me for a while.”

“Answer the question, Anne.”

“He asked me to dance,” Anne reiterated, a tad mortified that there had yet to be a confession uttered between herself and Gilbert, though she was certain their feelings must be obvious to the other – they were certainly obvious to their friends. “He’s also kissed me.”

“Anne!”

“After I kissed him first.”

“ANNE!”

The two friends giggled gaily together as they continued walking through the fairgrounds, arms hooked over one another as they whispered conspiratorially back and forth, Diana demanding details of Anne’s kisses with Gilbert while Anne played coy, offering snippets of an answer, but each reply only leading to Diana having more questions.

“So this secret romance has been happening right under all of Avonlea’s nose since the long weekend?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s so exciting as a secret romance,” Anne quipped. “It’s only been a few kisses. Although, the night Baby Lacroix was born…the same night Mathew…Gilbert wondered if he could ask the Cuthberts about us. To court, I suppose…I hoped.”

“And? Is that what you still hope?” Diana asked, moving Anne to face her so she could gage the truth of the sixteen-year old’s answer. Anne worried her bottom lip, nibbling at the plump flesh as she let Diana’s earnest dark eyes bore into her own, seeing the truth even Anne was only just starting to understand.

“I think…perhaps…maybe he’s my destiny,” she admitted.

“Do you really think so?” Diana asked, pleased.

“I do,” Anne confirmed, smile growing as she felt her body warm with the answer.

Surely something as grand as destiny was what had been pulling Anne and Gilbert together again and again. After all, what were the odds that Gilbert and Anne’s paths would have ever crossed? There was so much that could have prevented their serendipitous meeting that long ago misty morning of three years ago.

Anne had very nearly not gone to school that day, not after the disaster that was the pet mouse and Prissy Andrews incident. And even after she’d left Green Gables it had crossed her mind to simply take a detour in the Haunted Woods and play truant, to get lost amongst the trees rather than face the harsh judgement of her peers. Gilbert could have still been away in Alberta with his father, or John Blythe could have chosen to spend his last weeks among the mountains rather than his family orchard, or the pair simply could have come back to Avonlea one month later than they had. Anne could have asked to stay and help on the farm, or Mathew and Marilla could have permanently sent her away, or Mr. Hammond could have lived and she’d still be trapped in that shack with that horrible man and his horrible wife and their horrible children. Gilbert could have chosen to ignore her and Billy, could have walked away from the frightened stranger with red hair, could have assumed Billy was rightly leveling justice down on an irredeemable soul…

But that’s not what happened.

Three years ago, on a foggy morning in the middle of the woods, Gilbert Blythe walked out of the grey haze that ensconced the birch trees and saved Anne Shirley-Cuthbert from a threat that was as vile and vicious as any troll. They were strangers in the woods, a boy and a girl both lost in very different and very similar ways, and somehow they had found each other.

Destiny indeed.

“Gilbert…” Diana whispered, and Anne was in such a light mood that she didn’t catch on to the disappointed edge that tinted the boy’s name when it slipped from between her friend’s lips.

“Maybe I should go find him,” Anne prattled on lightly. “Oh! He should have Madam Lyudmila read his fortune, too! Just to be certain we’re compatible, although I haven’t a single doubt.”

“It’s Gilbert,” Diana said, again sounding very odd.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

“No, Anne,” Diana stressed, jutting her chin to something beyond her friend’s shoulder.

Curious, Anne turned around, her eyes landing on the yellow trellis knitted with vines of wild cucumber that served as the entrance to vendors’ row, and her happiness withered instantly from her eyes, the blue dimming until only stormy grey crashed within the orbs, her smile fading, and heart’s happy palpitations shriveling up as she absorbed what she was seeing.

Gilbert had arrived, looking devilishly handsome in his Sunday suit, his wild curls hidden under his best cap, hazel eyes roving over the fairgrounds with delight and his smile as dazzling as any diamond Anne could imagine.

And at his side, with a delicately gloved hand tucked snugly in the cradle of his elbow, was the most beautiful woman Anne had ever seen.

* * *

“Snake oil liniment, for you, sir? Cures what ails you!”

“Does it, now?”

“Aye. Why, I had a terrible case of gout last autumn. A daily massage of this miracle tincture and I was healed in three days! Let me show you my toe.”

“Maybe not,” Gilbert said, jumping into the conversation and saving Nigel Rose from having to politely examine the gout-cured toe of the exuberant huckster. The vendor grimaced at Gilbert but did lower his, thankfully still shoed, foot and moved on to give his pitch on the wonders of snake oil liniment to a trio of young women, promising them their husbands’ virility would multiply ten-fold if given but a few drops of the phenomenal potion.

“Why bother with medical school at all when you could study with him?” Winnie teased, nose wrinkling distastefully as she quickly read the ingredients listed on the unguent’s label.

“It would cost less,” Gilbert joked back.

“But I imagine it wouldn’t be terribly fulfilling,” Helen Rose added. “Certainly not for a mind as forward thinking as yours, Gilbert.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rose,” Gilbert said, flushing when he caught Winnie rolling her eyes at him from behind her mother’s back. “Actually, I’ve been following an immunology study being conducted out of the Sorbonne. It’s fascinating work.”

“Ah! So the Sorbonne’s your destiny, then? And here I thought you were a Redmond man,” Mr. Rose commented, walking side by side with Gilbert, Mrs. Rose and Winnie trailing a few paces behind them as they continued strolling through the fairgrounds. 

“Oh, Redmond is definitely the dream,” Gilbert assured.

“Not as reputable or proven as the Sorbonne, though.”

“Perhaps not, but it is where the newest innovations and best medical research in Canada is being conducted,” Gilbert said. “Where institutions like the Sorbonne, or University of Toronto, or Oxford have pedigrees as long as the ocean is deep, those same expectations place restrictions on what they can do because they can’t afford too many mistakes. It means they have to play it safe; not take risks. Whereas Redmond has nothing to lose. She has to earn her place in the upper echelons and to do that the work and people that comes out of that university must continue to be experimental and bold. Revolutionary, really. Did you know the Maritimes’ first female lawyer is an alumnus of Redmond University?”

“I did,” Mr. Rose answered, clearly impressed with Gilbert’s fervour.

“I think Redmond is producing both the best work and the best people in all of Canada,” the eighteen-year old confessed. “I know that if I want to stick with medicine, if I want to make a difference and really help people – heal them! – then Redmond is where I must go.”

It was not quite the speech Gilbert had been practicing since that morning when he’d driven the buggy to Bright River to pick up Winnie and the Roses from the train station. He wanted to sound more polished, more professional, as if he were presenting a well researched argument in debate club. Instead, the words just sprung from him in chaotic sincerity.

“Oh Winifred, you were right. This one is special,” Mrs. Rose said with admiration. “I could see Gilbert and your Jeremy teaming up to take the medical world by storm in a few years.”

“If Gilbert gets the opportunity to become a doctor it just might happen,” Winnie agreed. “Of course, Gilbert _must_ get into his dream school first,” she added, casting a wry look at her father, Nigel Rose reading her message loud and clear.

“I suppose my daughter has made mention of my connections at Redmond.”

“She might have said something,” Gilbert replied bashfully, scratching his chin.

“Don’t be shy now, young man,” Mr. Rose encouraged. “A soul doesn’t get what it wants in this world unless he’s willing to work for it.”

“My father used to say that,” Gilbert commented, smiling. “But to be fair to him and you, Mr. Rose, I’m asking, not working.”

“Sometimes part of the work is getting up the nerve to ask,” Mr. Rose replied.

“Alright,” Gilbert said, squaring his shoulders and looking the older man confidently in the eye, managing to mask his nerves. “Mr. Nigel Rose, it’s my understanding that you are an old acquaintance of Mr. Leonard Wilson. I would be indebted to you, and your wonderful family, if you would be willing to speak with Mr. Wilson on my behalf with regards to my potential admission to Redmond University. Will you do me this favour?”

Mr. Rose allowed for a long, excruciating pause to fill the space between himself and Gilbert, the eighteen-year old getting so nervous he could feel each hammering leap of the second hand on his pocket watch, the timepiece tucked away in his jacket pocket. The older man took his time appraising Gilbert, honeyed eyes searching the boy’s face, possibly trying to measure his integrity from how he clenched his jaw or how many times he blinked under the silent scrutiny. 

Finally, Mr. Rose smiled, patted Gilbert on the shoulder, and ushered his wife to join him in the queue to get their photograph taken.

“Did…was that…will he…”

“You’ve made quite an impression on him,” Winnie assured, coming up to his side.

“How can you tell?”

“Daughter’s intuition,” she replied, and as Gilbert had no witty remark, he simply kept silent and decided to trust his friend.

As they waited for the Roses, Gilbert offered Winifred his arm and the pair meandered amongst the stalls, stopping to admire anything that caught their interest, discussing upcoming appointments at the clinic and how Winnie’s time with her parents had been.

“Truly, they’ve not been nearly as big a handful as I expected. Europe seems to have mellowed mother’s nerves.”

“I’m glad,” Gilbert said, secretly wishing he had a mother of his own to get on his nerves about washing under his nails, and eating enough, and finding the ‘the right girl’.

Of course, he’d already found the right girl, although he wasn’t having much luck finding her in the crowd. Every few steps he’d cast his hazel gaze over the throngs of people, seeking the tell-tale shade of red that never failed, not since that first day, to make his heart beat fast. He knew he’d run into Anne under the big tent at the vegetable competition, but he hoped to introduce her to Winnie and the Roses first.

And then a wave of red caught in the corner of his eye, and Gilbert turned on his heel, finally seeing Anne standing to the side of a toy stall. She was with Diana and looking as pretty as a buttercup, her dress a wonderful wave of freshness compared to the dark mourning wardrobe she’d taken to wearing over the past weeks. Her hair was loose around her, bringing to the young man’s mind an image of a painting he’d seen in a book once of the goddess Aphrodite emerging from the sea. Of course, recalling that painting also reminded Gilbert that the adored Goddess of Love had been nude in the image he was comparing to Anne, and he had to struggle to stifle his blush as he lifted a hand to wave.

Neither Anne nor Diana returned the greeting, but they did notice him, so Gilbert smiled and walked with Winnie to join the pair.

“Hello,” he said, bobbing his head.

“Hi,” Anne replied quietly, casting curious eyes on Gilbert’s companion.

“Winifred Rose, may I introduce Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” he said, not without a great swell of pride.

“So this is the infamous Anne with an ‘e’,” Winifred exclaimed gladly, taking Anne’s hand in hers, her handshake echoing her enthusiasm. “I must say it is such a treat to finally meet the girl Gilbert has been going on about for half an age.”

“He goes on about me? Really?” Anne asked, shifting her eyes to the boy in question. “Funny, I’ve never heard him go on about you, Miss Rose.”

“Well, I shouldn’t think so,” Winifred replied. “I’m hardly a subject worth consideration.”

“I highly doubt that,” Anne retorted, having noted no less than seven men and three women eye the fashionable blond, faces speaking volumes of interest, curiosity, jealously, and desire. And more than that, Anne was sure Winifred was very much aware of the attention she commanded. “Have you come on your own to the fair?” she wondered.

“My parents are with me. They’ve just stopped to have their photograph taken,” Winifred answered, her chuckle as delicate as her curls.

“Your parents?”

“Yes. Well, they wanted to meet Gilbert, you see.”

“Meet Gilbert?”

“Oh indeed. I suppose I carried on about him so in my letters that they were determined to meet the aspiring doctor at last.”

“Letters,” Anne echoed hollowly, her face a mask of hurt confusion.

“How is it you know each other?” Diana piped up, and Anne felt like a dunce for not having remembered her bosom friend at her side.

“Diana. Sorry,” Gilbert said with a bashful nod, also embarrassed for having forgotten the dark-haired girl, only his breath had been rather stolen by how dazzling Anne looked up close (he could count each of her freckles; _thrilling_!). “Diana Barry, this is Winifred Rose. She’s Dr. Ward’s clerk.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Winifred said, shaking Diana’s hand, the other young woman barely managing to rein in her scowl.

“So you know one another from the clinic?” Diana prodded.

“Oh yes. Gilbert and I are old friends,” Winifred remarked, her words stabbing at Anne so relentlessly she nearly flinched.

“I have to go,” she announced, hardly able to believe she’d said the words aloud, they were so rude.

“That’s right. Your radish,” Gilbert exclaimed, and Anne would have found the remark adorably clueless if she wasn’t feeling so encroachingly enraged.

“Radish?” she echoed, wanting to shake the boy.

“You did enter it in the competition, didn’t you?” Gilbert asked, his brows pinching together with confusion.

“I did,” she said back defiantly, as if they were engaged in one of their infamous debates where there were no victors.

“That’s great! Is the judging starting soon?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I believe it is,” Anne said back before promptly turning on Gilbert and Winifred and marching off.

“Sorry, must dash,” Diana added curtly, catching up to Anne and throwing her arm over her shoulder as they walked. “The nerve!” she hissed in Anne’s ear.

“He said she was Dr. Ward’s clerk,” Anne sputtered.

“Has he never told you about her?”

“He never told me she was ravishing!” Anne cried, recalling the few times Gilbert mentioned the clerk he worked with at the clinic.

He’d told her they discussed articles from medical periodicals, or spent time putting Dr. Ward’s display skeleton back together as an exercise to learn the names of all the bones, or took the occasional tea break together. He had said the clerk was a woman but Anne had always imagined a robust window more inclined towards Marilla’s age rather than a society lady in the full bloom of her beauty. Had Gilbert purposefully omitted such details because he harboured secret feelings for Winifred and didn’t want Anne to know?

“Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding?” Diana suggested, bursting through Anne’s upsetting thoughts as they neared the big tent. “You said he kissed you. I can’t imagine Gilbert is the sort of boy who would kiss one girl while pinning for another.”

“I can’t imagine it either,” Anne said, but just because she couldn’t imagine it didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. Once, she’d barely been able to imagine Gilbert would want to kiss her, and yet he had, several times in fact. Perhaps her worries were running away with her again.

She’d only find out if she talked to Gilbert.

And she would do just that…after her temper cooled and her heart stopped aching with each beat.

Once they were under the big tent, Diana was spirited away by her parents who were eager to introduce her to a prominent Stanley Bridge family they’d met who just so happened to have an available son. Unable to save her friend from the tedious meet-and-greet, Anne and Diana parted, leaving Anne to wander alone with nothing and no one for company but her thoughts.

And what wretched thoughts they were.

She tried desperately to assure herself that Winifred Rose’s beauty hadn’t turned Gilbert’s head. Gilbert had said (well, not _said-said_ , but his actions towards her had spoken volumes) that Anne was the girl he was gone over, the girl he wanted to court, the girl he felt was his ideal match. Surely she hadn’t made up those feelings; feelings she held within her own heart and wanted desperately to believe were reciprocated.

Still, the image of Winifred Rose - older, charming, fashionable, alluring - was burned so thoroughly in Anne’s mind that she couldn’t even close her eyes in an attempt to ignore her doubt because all she could see was how pretty Winifred’s smile was, how her blue eyes shimmered like jewels, and her blond curls made perfect spirals around her face (a face unmarred by freckles), and how positively ladylike she appeared in her cream day dress with red lapels and lace collar. Winifred was every daydream of maturity Anne had held close to her heart, and it was vexing to see such a paradigm standing next to Gilbert! Anne could feel her temper spiking again (and was ashamed to admit she found partial relief from her ire by allowing herself a short fantasy wherein she appeared in Dr. Ward’s clinic dressed in the latest Parisian fashions and had every eye turning from the pretty clerk to admire the mysterious debutante come to collect Gilbert for tea), and decided to make her way to the long table at the south end of the tent where an impressive collection of big vegetables was on display. 

Anne cast an eye at her radish, smiling when she noticed some children pointing at it, their chubby faces alight with mirth as they tugged on their mother’s skirt so she too could admire the vegetable. She also spotted Mr. Mason standing proudly behind a fantastical gigantic cabbage, chest puffed out and bottom lip pursed with self-congratulations.

He was always rather foreboding looking to Anne, the man hardly smiling and his words few. In a way he was like Mathew, but whereas Anne had never been nervous about approaching Mathew, not since the first minute of their meeting, she was a touch trepidatious of speaking to Mr. Mason. Anne felt he didn’t carry the same kind countenance as Mathew. She really hoped she would beat him.

“Have they started yet?”

Gilbert’s whisper in her ear startled Anne, the girl twisting violently to the side Gilbert had sidled to, one hand flying up to her ear as if it burned where his breath had brushed against it.

“No,” she answered, eyes wide as she begrudgingly admitted to herself that he looked very handsome. It was tempting to lean forward and press a peck to his check, but she was still cross with him, and was reminded of that furious fact when Winifred Rose approached them, an older, well dressed couple that surely must be her parents close behind her.

Gilbert made the appropriate introductions before bragging that Anne had submitted the spectacular radish nestled at the far end of the table, the bright lopsided root snug between an impressively round onion and girthy cucumber. Anne was polite to the Roses, thinking the two a handsome pair who made polite conversation over Anne’s vocational aspirations, her family, and her radish entry. They were quite nice and Anne found herself falling into a sense a comfort as they chatted, her anxiety only jumping whenever Winnie would laugh (such a high, lovely little laugh), or comment on an inside joke between herself and Gilbert, or just exist generally.

A crowd started to gather close to the long table as the judges neared the end of their perusal, and Mrs. Rose eagerly shushed the small group’s chatter so they could learn the results of the competition. Anne held her breath as she watched the judges review their notes, trying to determine if she could know the winner by the way one stroked their mustache, or the other adjusted their spectacles, or the third coughed delicately into his fist. Once their whispers ceased, the three men took to the little stage and the crowd hushed.

“To begin,” the mustachioed judge started, “third prize for largest vegetable goes to Patrick McLean for his potato weighing in at one and three quarter kilograms!”

A fat, red-faced man with ruddy coloured hair came to the front of the crowd and waved, happy with his ranking and glad to accept the red ribbon with ‘3rd Place’ stamped in the centre.

“In second place, David and Theodora Keith for their tomato plant, measuring four meters!”

Again, polite applause filled the tent as the young siblings collected their ribbon from the judges. 

“Before we announce the blue ribbon winner, a few marginal prizes,” the bespeckled judge announced and Anne was very nearly tempted to toss something at the trio for delaying the grand prize.

Seeing her frustration, Gilbert reached out and squeezed Anne’s elbow.

“Have faith,” he said, leaning close again, his whisper against her ear making her skin tingle. “Not that I’m telling you what to do, of course.”

She couldn’t help smiling, even if it was a strained, part-grimace, part-on-the-edge-of-laughter sort of grin. It almost made Anne forget that she wasn’t exactly happy with the boy at her side (and especially not happy with the pretty lady beside him).

The judges rhymed off six substitute prizes (most colourful, smallest big vegetable, heaviest vegetable, most beautiful, furthest travelled, best presentation) and Anne waited in nail-biting anticipation. Her eyes were locked unblinkingly on the blue ribbon held by the mustachioed judge, certain it was hers, and keen to hear her name announced.

“Finally, the last of our unorthodox awards: for the ‘Most Unusual’ vegetable, the prize goes to Miss Anne Shirley-Cuthbert for her bulbous radish!”

Anne could feel her neck heating up, and her hands shaking, and her eyes threatening to spill over with tears. It didn’t register to the distraught sixteen-year old that the crowd clapped gladly, or that the Roses offered sincere congratulations, or that Winnie patted her on the shoulder and offered a ‘good show’ in pleased support, or that Gilbert clapped the loudest and most heartily. None of it matter, for all Anne could feel was the sinking sense of failure; of having let Mathew down in her last chance to make him proud.

She barely watched as Jack Mason took the first prize, managing only a few polite claps as the man proudly ascended the stage to shake hands with the judges and watch as the blue ribbon was pinned to his cabbage. Unable to face the disappointment, Anne took off, dashing out from the big tent and running blindly through the fairgrounds.

“Anne!”

It was Gilbert. Of course it was Gilbert.

Only taking the briefest glace over her shoulder, Anne spotted her best friend darting between strolling families and happy hucksters, his long legs bringing him closer and closer to Anne no matter how quickly she tried to run away. She knew he’d want to console her, but between the utter disappointment of having lost the competition and her unsettled feelings over Winifred, Anne wasn’t certain she wanted to talk to Gilbert else she put her foot in it in spectacular fashion and either snap at him again or make accusations that were unfounded.

She’d have to hide.

Swerving around a display of painted postcards from exotic destinations across the world, Anne crawled under an organ grinder’s wagon and thought she might have shaken Gilbert off her trail, but another shout of her name, much closer than she would have expected, alerted her otherwise. Desperately searching for a hiding spot, Anne noticed she was standing in front of the Tunnel of Love.

The attraction was every flowery, saccharine, over-the-top display of love a young girl might dream of, and were she not running away from her potential beau, Anne thought it would be divine to walk through the tunnel with Gilbert…

“Anne!”

…however, at this particular moment, she wasn’t in the mood for romance. Still, the Tunnel of Love offered her the only chance at escape, and when Gilbert called out for her again, closer still, Anne took the opportunity.

She charged for the Tunnel of Love, ducking behind the red curtain that marked the entrance, successfully hiding herself from Gilbert’s relentless searching. She heard him approach her hiding spot, stop, probably look around, before finally picking a direction and dashing off. Peeking one watery eye out from behind the curtain, Anne couldn’t spot Gilbert, but couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still close.

Huffing, the redhead decided it was best to stay in the Tunnel of Love for the time being.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Anne started walking. The back and forth path was flanked by nine foot walls and was only just wide enough for two to walk shoulder to shoulder, a perfect space for lovers, but abjectly horrible for a single stroller. The long, pink painted wood panels that made up the tunnel each had a large, obnoxious heart cut out the size of a great bay window, allowing for sunshine and fresh air to waft along the trail. Red, purple and gold hearts, cupids, roses, and looping cursive poetry proclaiming the most romantic of sentiments decorated the blush coloured walls. Pine needles were spread like a blanket over the path, each of Anne’s steps snapping the prickles and releasing a crisp woodsy perfume while the canopy created by a close cherry tree offered cool shade and the odd white blossom that would fall from the branches like sweet tears. One of the blossoms landed on Anne’s shoulder, and she took it in the palm of her hand, thinking the petals perfect and dazzling…just like Winifred Rose.

Anne bit her lip to stop its trembling. She wouldn’t cry.

“Anne!”

Startled, Anne dropped the cherry blossom and watched as Gilbert approached, making his way towards her via hefting himself through the ornate heart cut outs perforating through every wall. The redhead mentally kicked herself when she realized her mistake. If she’d just stayed put behind the curtain rather than started walking she could have kept out of sight, but Anne was not normally a static individual, especially when her emotions ran high, and so she’d naturally started walking to try and clear her head, forgetting that she’d be easy to find.

And somehow, Gilbert always did find her.

“Why are you following me?” she asked crossly just as Gilbert hooked one long leg through the heart-window that would bring him beside her, crushing the cherry blossom she’d dropped under his boot and joining Anne in the narrow tunnel.

“Because I want to know why you’re running away from me.”

“I’m not running,” Anne argued, pressing the backs of her legs against the wall, nearly loosing her balance to fall through the heart cut-out behind her. “I’m walking briskly.”

“My apologies, then,” Gilbert replied. “I’d like to know why you’re walking briskly away from me.”

“I’m walking briskly in general. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Now that’s a bold faced lie if ever I heard one.”

“Gilbert Blythe, how dare you! I am not a liar,” Anne cried.

“I know, so I’d really like to know why you’re doing it now,” was Gilbert’s curt response. Grey eyes going round with vexation, Anne started walking away _very_ briskly. Gilbert followed, of course, keeping two paces behind her as they wove left and right through the tunnel, a slow, strange game of chase that Gilbert felt they’d been playing for years.

“I’m sorry about your radish,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “But ‘Most Unusual’ is still a complimentary prize. I think Mr. Cuthbert would have found it funny.”

Anne didn’t reply. Instead, she walked a few more steps before abruptly stopping to look over her shoulder at her friend. Gilbert froze, waiting as patiently as he could for Anne to speak, but as the seconds ticked by his anxiousness climbed, his fingers flexing into fists at his side to keep from reaching for her.

“Winifred is lovely.”

That was not what he expected Anne to say.

“I suppose she is,” he agreed, confused.

“Her parents seem very kind, too.”

“Yes,” Gilbert said. “I wanted to talk to you about the Roses, actually.”

Anne nearly balked when Gilbert stepped close and took her hands, bewildered at his enthusiasm, especially for the parents of his very beautiful colleague. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear, and tried to pull away, but Gilbert’s grip was firm.

“Mr. Rose has offered help me in my admission to Redmond,” he announced, hazel eyes shining with joy and terror. “Winifred’s told him about my studies, my ambition to become a doctor, so he wanted to meet me to get an understanding of my character.”

“So you brought the Roses to the fair?” Anne asked, truly perplexed, but unable to deny her relief, the tension in her back easing. So, Gilbert wasn’t negotiating for a fresh and prettier face to devote his heart to as she’d allowed herself to fear. It was a reality as alleviating as it was mystifying.

“Winifred asked. She…well, she finds her parents a bit overbearing, independent working woman that she is – you’d really like her. I offered to help keep the Roses occupied for a day to give her a rest, and since they wanted to meet me anyway, the fair seemed the best opportunity. But that’s not important. Anne, Mr. Rose…he knows Redmond’s president. He’s going to give me his personal recommendation directly.”

“Oh…Gil, that’s wonderful,” she sighed, tipping up on her toes to hug him. “Truly, I am so pleased for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, relishing her arms around his neck before letting her go, unable to keep from staring at Anne with adoring eyes. “Did you…are you alright?”

“Of course! Why would you ask?”

Gilbert didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, his hand careful and gentle as he brushed his thumb against her cheek, close to her left eye, and she felt the moisture sweep along her skin as he swept a tear away. Realizing her body was betraying her, Anne bit her lip before lowering her head to press her cheek in the warm well of Gilbert’s palm, her lips brushing his wrist when she spoke.

“I thought you might be…only Winifred is so beautiful, and cultured, and poised. Her radishes would take every blue ribbon here.”

“I like my radishes most unusual, thanks,” Gilbert responded, smiling sweetly. “And red. Very, very red.”

He leaned in slowly and she let him, sighing against his mouth when he kissed her, traces of honey and apples on his lips. She wondered if she tasted like salt from the tears she hadn’t known she’d been crying.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away, hands on his shoulders as she lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze.

“Anne, did you really think I’d had my head turned by Winnie?” he wondered, conflictingly concerned and elated that Anne was jealous over him.

“I thought you’d come to your senses and realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth,” Anne retorted. “You’ve never mentioned her! A stunning lady that you see every Saturday and you’ve never said a word about her.”

“I told you about Dr. Ward’s clerk,” Gilbert insisted.

“You neglected to mention she’s a proper lady,” Anne batted back.

“What does that mean?”

“I saw you with Winifred,” Anne continued, ignoring Gilbert’s question, “and I thought…she’s just so beautiful – you _both_ looked so beautiful together and it made more sense than you and m—” Anne had to stop, take a few deep breaths, and ignore Gilbert’s shrinking smile, his crestfallen brow, his dimming eyes, before she continued. “Maybe we…maybe we shouldn’t try…we can’t…and I don’t know –”

“Anne?” Gilbert asked quietly, mercifully interrupting her broken speech. “Are you…are you saying you don’t want…us anymore?”

It looked like it hurt him to say the words and she hated herself.

“I’m saying you shouldn’t want me,” she corrected, her heart sinking as she said the words that wounded her as good as any belt lashing. Worse even.

“Why?”

“I’m so…I’m a fool, and irrational, and I just…I’m broken.”

“Anne!” Gilbert admonished, hurt that the woman he loved felt so poorly about herself. It contrasted sharply with the confident, radiant Anne he knew, but then a person had so many layers that one was bound to find hidden depths, dark crevasses, shadowed corners. Loving a person wholly meant knowing that they were capable of bleakness, doubt, and fear; it meant loving them for those darker feelings as much as you loved them for the brighter ones.

It meant letting them see your own fragmented self and trusting they would love you no differently for having shared the truth. You had to believe they would be there for you as steadfastly as you would always be there for them.

“I was broken, too,” he confessed. “Part of me still is and probably always will be. My father is dead. Yours is, too. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to not be a little broken, not if they care about others. It doesn’t mean you’re unworthy, Anne. It just means you’re a person.”

“But there’s so much more than Mathew!” Anne insisted, her father’s name tearing out of her soul and echoing under the cherry tree canopy. “I am not an ideal beauty, and I’m odd, and I never believed I could ever have someone look at me the way you do…

“Gilbert my past…where I’m from, what I did, what was done to me…what I remember and what I don’t…I don’t know who I am, and I feel as if every Anne inside of me has splintered and been scattered to the winds. I don’t know how to put me back together.”

“You let others help you,” Gilbert answered sagely, taking her hands in his. Anne noticed he was trembling and squeezed his fingers against her own. “Please.”

He didn’t care that he was begging. This was Anne; his Anne with an ‘e’, and she was floundering. He felt as helpless as he had the day they’d first met, when she’d refused to speak with him despite his best efforts, mannerly intentions, his mischievous pranks and, finally, his impatient braid tugging. He wished she had a slate with her now, because a whack to the head would at least mean he’d reached her, got under her skin and pulled at the very soul of her, bringing out the fiery passion that was being suppressed by her grief and guilt and sadness.

He didn’t know if he was getting to Anne now, but just as he’d done on that first day, he kept trying.

“You once told me there was a sad beauty in broken things,” Gilbert reminded, lifting a hand to softly brush Anne’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. She didn’t flinch from his touch and kept her watery dove grey eyes trained on him, a small spark of something (hope? love? trust?) alighting around the edges. “That the years of triumph and tragedy made them more hearty and romantical than new baubles that haven’t lived at all. You’ve lived, and you’re broken, because of Mathew, because of your years before Avonlea, because you know the triumphs and tragedies of life more than any sixteen-year old ought to. And you are beautiful, Anne; your soul is so resplendent that I don’t know what I could ever do with my own broken and glued together self to deserve to call you my best friend and have you say the same of me.

“So, no, I won’t turn away from you – _us_ – because you’re broken and can’t understand why I would want you just the same. Anne,” Gilbert said, his voice soft and tone sweetly sincere. He held her hand gently between them, and without meaning to Anne’s grip tightened. It made Gilbert smile. “You have to know, there could never be anyone for me but you.”

She did know.

Besides the fact that his words were coated in truth, Anne felt Gilbert’s sincerity in the marrow of her bones.

But then again, she felt the same way about him.

“Gilbert…”

“Carrots,” he echoed softly, smiling in that adorable lopsided way, lifting their joined hands to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart beating against the back of her hand and leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his neck and tucking her face into his shoulder, their hands cradled between their bodies as they embraced. “You’ll be alright,” Gilbert whispered into her hair.

Anne nodded against his neck, believing in Gilbert’s words and believing in herself.

She would be alright.

Not just now, but tomorrow she would be a bit better, and the day after a bit better, until she’d managed to collect all the better bits and assembled them into something whole. It would be a new whole, a new Anne, but she would be put back together. And if she ever did shatter again there would be Gilbert and Marilla and Diana and Jerry and Ms. Stacy and Bash and Mary and Little Mathew ( _yes, Little Mathew!_ ) to help her mend, if she let them.

Stepping away from their hug, Anne was about to make a weak joke about Gilbert needing to improve on his stitchwork if he expected her to allow him to help repair her broken spirit, when a screech of such rattling magnitude cut through the meadow that it halted every merriment on the fairgrounds.

Jumping away from each other, Anne and Gilbert were suddenly showered in cherry blossoms as birds took rapid flight from the branches that bowed over the tunnel of love. Quickly, the pair climbed over each of the heart cut-outs, a dozen in all, before unceremoniously leaving the pink maze and stumbling hand-in-hand towards where the screaming was still coming from: at the base of the large cherry tree.

“LORD IN HEAVEN!”

“I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU!”

“YOU’VE RUINED YOURSELF! YOU’VE RUINED US!”

“DID YOU THINK OF THAT?!”

“I’ve ruined nothing! Least of all myself!”

It was Diana who cried out the rebuttal, her words ripped from her bowels as she faced her mother and father.

Mr. and Mrs. Barry were turning purple with rage, Mrs. Barry clutching Diana’s wrist in a vice-like grip while Mr. Barry was holding out his walking stick like a rapier at Jerry Baynard. A crowd had come to circle the distraught family, everyone murmuring as they watched the dramatics. Even the clowns and jugglers had ceased their play to watch the scene.

“Please, Mr. Barry –” Jerry attempted, speaking evenly, calmly, but the older man was having none of it.

“Don’t you ‘please’ me, you heathen!” Mr. Barry sneered, jabbing his walking stick at Jerry, the eighteen-year old holding his hands up in surrender as he backed away, but his eyes remained focused on Diana who was looking right back at him with desperation.

“Diana?” Anne asked, letting go of Gilbert’s hand to approach her friend, heedless of the pinched sneer Mrs. Barry gave her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Don’t act as if you don’t know, Anne,” Mrs. Barry demanded, startling the redhead. “I’m sure you helped them to orchestrate many a rendezvous.”

“What?”

“Anne didn’t know!” Diana protested. “No one knew.”

“Knew what?” Anne asked.

“Do you swear, Anne?” Mrs. Barry asked, snatching up Anne’s wrist in her free hand. “Do you swear you knew nothing of Diana’s… _association_ with your farmhand.”

“Association?” Anne echoed. “But of course I knew. Diana and Jerry often exchange ‘hellos’ when she comes to Green Gables.”

“Oh, call it what it is, mother,” Diana spat. “A romance.”

“Romance?” Anne asked, feeling as if the entire crowd of witnesses gasped loudly, the very air being sucked away from the meadow until she felt lightheaded. “Diana you…and Jerry?”

“I love her!” Jerry declared. “Mr. Barry, Mrs. Barry, please. I love your daughter so much.”

“Love her fortune, more like,” Mr. Barry heckled. “Your people are so low you want to bring all of us down to your level, but you’ll not take my daughter.”

“Father I love him!” Diana declared, tears running down her cheeks as she looked at Jerry, helpless and afraid and yearning to get near her beloved.

“You do? You love me?” Jerry asked, his expression becoming a luminescent personification of happiness. Diana mirrored his glowing smile and nodded.

“This is madness!” Mrs. Barry decided. “Diana, we are leaving.”

“No!” Diana protested, pulling against her mother so sharply she was able to break free and rush to Jerry, the young man fearless as he pushed her father’s cane away and met her in the middle, arms thrown over each other in a crushing embrace that had many in the crowd squealing, or sighing, or tutting in disapproval. They kissed each other with devoted longing, as if it was their last kiss, which it might very well be.

Mrs. Barry released Anne’s wrist to wrest her daughter away from Jerry while Mr. Barry pulled the boy back, knocking him to the ground.

“Hey!”

Mr. Baynard and Jerry’s two older brothers breeched the ring of people and charged forward.

“Tell your son to keep his filthy hands off my daughter!” Mr. Barry demanded.

Mr. Baynard began rhyming off a litany of words in French and Mr. Barry did the same, both men speaking so rapidly that Anne could hardly keep up, only able to catch the odd word like ‘outrageous, ‘dare’, and ‘never’. She listened as Jerry made a rapid plea to his father that he really loved Diana, that they were sweethearts and wanted to be together.

“The ‘art wants what it wants,” Mr. Baynard said, looking at Mr. Barry with a resigned expression.

“Well tell your son to keep his heart to himself.”

And with that wretched decree, Mr. Barry stormed off, Mrs. Barry at his heels with Diana’s wrist firmly in her grasp, Minnie May forced to trail behind them with her head hanging low. Before the Barry’s even left the fairgrounds the crowd was abuzz, people whispering behind their hands to friends and neighbours, curious eyes honing in on the Baynard family who also left the fair, although with less aplomb and a great deal more dignity than the Barrys.

“Are you alright?” Gilbert asked, coming to stand by Anne, gently taking the wrist Mrs. Barry had gripped so tightly. He brushed his fingers over the skin, only slightly red, and Anne couldn’t help leaning into him.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice sullen.

“I know,” Gilbert replied.

“Diana never told me. She never said.”

“I can see why. I had no idea the Barrys were so…opinionated.”

It was the politest way Gilbert could say that Mr. and Mrs. Barry had proven just how classest and even bigoted they truly were, not that he didn’t already have an idea of it as the couple had refused every invitation to dinner Mary had sent for the last year, but Gilbert had wanted to believe it was because of other obligations rather than discrimination. He still had a great deal to learn about the world, it seemed.

“She said she loves him,” Anne said, trance-like, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen. “And they’re being forced apart. Gil that’s…it’s too tragical to consider. My poor, heartbroken Diana!”

Gilbert didn’t care that they were surrounded by half of Grenville Parish. He put an arm around Anne and encouraged her to lean into him, and she did for a few minutes, not crying, but just relying on his strength to keep her steady until she could manage on her own.

“You should get back to the Roses,” she decided when she finally stepped out of his hold.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Very. Go keep making a good impression,” she insisted, flattening his lapels and straightening his tie. “It will be excellent practice for when you’re rubbing shoulders with the best and brightest at Redmond.”

“What about you?” he asked, enjoying how she fussed over him, unable to help imagining a bright summer morning far away in the future, of a kitchen tucked inside his house of dreams and an Anne who was older, wiser, just as beautiful, possibly pregnant, wishing him a good morning as the eggs cooked on the stovetop, her fingers fussing with the crooked apron strings around his waist.

“I think I’ll find Marilla and just go home.”

“Oh…”Gilbert said, sounding disappointed. It wouldn’t be until well into the night when Anne was wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water that she would realize that the reason Gilbert had seemed so oddly dejected at that moment was because she had reneged on their promised dance, and the realization would leave her feeling sullen and achy for the beat of music and the arms of her sweetheart.

But that regret was hours away.

At the moment, the only thing in the world that sounded appealing to Anne was a warm bath and the comfort of home and hearth while she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that Diana and Jerry were in love.

“See you,” she said, sneaking a secret squeeze to Gilbert’s hand before walking away.

She took her time heading back to the big tent, wondering if the competition for pastries had finished (and having not doubt that Marilla’s plum puffs had taken top prize). She stopped by the long table where the big vegetables roosted, approaching her radish with a disappointed sigh, the white ribbon with ‘Most Unusual’ scrawled in the centre not feeling quite like the victory she’d hoped to walk away with.

“Well done,” a gravely voice said. Looking up, Anne was met with the penetrating gaze of Mr. Jack Mason, the man having come up to stand opposite Anne, across from her radish.

“Thank you. And congratulations,” Anne said, jutting her chin at the man’s prize-winning cabbage at the other end of the long table, determined to be a good loser just as Mathew would have wanted. Jack Mason looked Anne up and down for a long moment, as if he was wary of receiving any sort of congenial greeting.

“You’re, uh…you’re Mathew Cuthbert’s girl, ain’t ya?”

“Yes,” Anne answered, holding out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason.”

“Oh. Mathew told you ‘bout me, eh?” the old man asked, taking Anne’s hand in a calloused grip.

“He did,” Anne confirmed, able to smile almost fondly as she thought of her father. “He mentioned your…competition.”

“Ah. Yes, well,” Mr. Mason stammered. “He ever mention it was him that started it?”

“No!” Anne exclaimed, for once truly tickled to be told something that seemed so strangely out of character for the father she’d known.

“Oh yes,” Jack Mason said, almost a bit smugly, hooking his thumbs into the straps of his suspenders. “We were boys. Bet a penny to see who could stuff the most blueberries in their mouth. Both got bellyaches and stained our teeth for days. Mathew won that time.”

Anne cackled at the image, wishing she’d been able to know the silly child Mr. Mason remembered.

“Hmm…he grow that radish?”

“He started it. I finished it,” Anne replied. “I won’t lie, Mr. Mason, I really did want to beat you. I thought it would be a fitting tribute to Mathew to finally see this hard fought rivalry end with a sweeping victory. I don’t mean any offense to you, of course, but I don’t suppose a daughter can be blamed for being biased towards her father.”

“S’ppose not,” Mr. Mason agreed scratching his stubbly cheek. “Um, you think you’ll enter next year?”

“I’m planning to attend college in the fall, so maybe it’ll be the cake competition for me then.”

“I see, I see,” Mr. Mason said. “But, ‘ya know, if you ever did want to try at this again...wood ash in the soil is good for keeping the moisture in.”

“Oh. I see…” Anne replied, charmed that the grizzly looking man would share one of his agricultural secrets. She could also see a wistfulness in his green eyes, and it dawned on Anne that Mr. Mason would miss his rivalry with Mathew.

“Well…hope I’ll see you next year.”

“Yes. I think you will,” Anne decided, pleased as punch when Mr. Mason gave a half-smile for a half-second before turning away and ambling back to his prize winning cabbage.

Feeling oddly empty and full from the day’s events, Anne decided to scoop up her radish and find Marilla so they could head for home. And as she cradled the awkward vegetable, Anne couldn’t help looking down on the white ribbon again, only this time there was no disappointment attached in her regard for the award.

Because Gilbert was right, she silently admitted with a begrudged amusement.

Mathew would have found the prize really funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no way I was the only person who wanted to see what might happen if Anne and Gilbert had actually gone into the Tunnel of Love. No way. Also, I had a hell of a time trying to figure out how the AWAE Tunnel of Love worked, especially when my research just turned up the water ride version, so I took a leaf from Anne’s book and used my imagination. What did you think?
> 
> And speaking of the Tunnel of Love, boy was that a scene to write. It was raw, and romantic, but sad, and cathartic, and it left the characters (and me) feeling pretty wrung out by the end. However, that was a conversation Anne and Gilbert needed to have. Again, it’s not THE conversation they need to have, but still a necessary one.
> 
> I totally believe Anne would have shared her philosophy on broken things with Gilbert, and he totally would have thrown it back at her the moment she tried to write herself off as too (insert self-depreciating word/comment here), using her own words to convey how much he cares for her, cracks and all. Also, it was nice to clear the air about Winnie EARLY so that Anne doesn’t have to ponder over the validity of Gilbert’s feelings, especially when he is often in the company of such a pretty and intelligent woman. That little hint of jealousy you got is the only one you’ll see in this story.
> 
> No, all conflicts between Anne and Gilbert from here on out will be of the miscommunication brand. And oh boy, you guys are gonna just HATE me in the next chapter, hee hee.
> 
> And I don’t mean to be tugging on your emotions and playing around. Anne and Gilbert have some big decisions to make and that requires both processing, reflecting and communicating, and they’re still trying to figure out how to do all of that competently. It’s a process, but one that I do think will leave you satisfied by the end of this story. Also, remember: Shirbert is the author’s OTP.
> 
> It will all work out in the end. Promise.
> 
> As for Diana and Jerry’s love story…see author’s promise for reassurance. 
> 
> And now on a personal note: dear, dear readers, this author is what the world refers to as an essential worker. I work in a retirement home and as you can imagine, the work lately has been harsh and stressful. Writing is one way I've been able to keep my mental stability during this time, but because the nature of this pandemic changes daily, I'm letting you know that updates are likely to become irregular. I swear I will do my best to keep to a weekly schedule, but sometimes that won't be feasible. I know you all understand, and I hope everyone stays safe during these strange times. 
> 
> Now back to our regularly scheduled program: 
> 
> Next Chapter: it’s time to write the entrance exams and then PAR-TAY!
> 
> A massive thank you to every reader, kudos-er, commenter, subscriber, bookmarker and recommender. Times are strained right now and the fact your giving ‘Dear Anne’ some of your very precious attention means a lot. Take care and stay safe!


	14. He's the Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana gives Anne something to think about - and she will do just that!
> 
> ...as soon as the entrance exams are done.

_‘Dear Anne,_

_I have always believed that our very interesting world would be a much kinder place if people could find the courage to speak aloud their real thoughts…’_

* * *

_The revelry in the town hall was stifling. The whole night, all Diana had heard was her parents’ posturing pride as they exclaimed over the excellent future they’d planned for their eldest, starting with sending her overseas to secure both a proper lady’s education and, with any luck, a proper husband as well._

_Their gratification was suffocating and Diana had to get away, just for a moment. She wanted to be alone, to ignore her parents’ bragging, and her sister’s misbehaving, and her friends’ gossip, and even Anne and Gilbert’s ridiculous pining! The pair were being entirely too obvious, casting longing looks at each other across the dance floor, Gilbert dashing over as often as he could with one excuse or another (a joke, a homework question, a cup of punch), or Anne needing to tell Gilbert something ‘right this moment’ rather than wait._

_Seeing her bosom friend so devotedly smitten normally brought Diana no end of amusement. After all, she’d been witness to the Anne-and-Gilbert blossoming romance for three dedicated years now, and she hoped to see its fruition before she was forced to leave Avonlea._

_And again, thinking of leaving her home, of being denied her dreams for the dreams of her parents, had Diana almost collapsing in a snowbank when she finally rushed outside the town hall, just needing to be alone, to think, to rage._

_She didn’t know when she started crying, hot angry tears racing down her cheeks as the night engulfed her. She didn’t even know how long she was outside, sequestered away from the New Year’s revelry, unable to celebrate the future with everyone else when the future only brought her one day closer to her doom._

_“Shh…shh…c’est d’accord. Ma jolie fille, shh...”_

_Arms were around her suddenly, loose enough so that she could leap away, but tender enough that she knew they offered nothing but comfort. The voice was gentle, the way a man might approach a wild animal caught in a snare, eager to help but aware he might get bitten if he got too close too soon._

_“Oh Jerry!” Diana sniffed, knowing it was him not because he was the only boy in all of Avonlea who spoke to her in French, but because his familiar scent of earth and air and straw supplanted the perfume of snow and cold that had surrounded her only moments ago. Diana flung her hands around Jerry’s neck and tucked her face against his chest (the boy was so_ tall _!) so she could cry._

_It was a long cry, one that had her whole body heaving, and her teeth gnashing and nose dripping. Jerry sang sweetly in her ear while she wailed, his hold never faltering, his fingers petting her thick black hair and disturbing the curls her family’s maid had painstakingly arranged all afternoon in preparation for Avonlea’s New Year’s Eve party._

_Eventually, the tears dried up, and Diana caught her breath, and she slowly lifted her head from Jerry’s chest. He didn’t cease holding her or stroking her hair, and for that she was pleased._

_“Sorry.”_

_“Non,” he replied, offering her a clean handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes and nose. “Don’t be sorry you’re sad. Only, if you wanted, you could tell me why.”_

_“I don’t want to leave,” she admitted, having only expressed this raw truth to Anne._

_“To Paris, oui?” Jerry asked, his dark eyes shining with kindness. Diana bit her lip and nodded, feeling the tears welling up again. Jerry’s eyes seemed to reflect her unhappiness, their dark brown depths glimmering under the moonlight. “I’ll miss you,” he admitted, only a bit shy, but Jerry was so often more cheeky than bashful that even this tender admission was painted with a touch of mischief._

_“I’ll miss you, too,” Diana agreed, leaning in to hug the boy again. “Who will I share books with in Paris?”_

_The joke was lame, and neither one laughed, but the sentiment was brutally sincere._

_In early October, Jerry and Diana had bumped into one another in town. The young man had been so preoccupied reading_ Frankenstein _that he hadn’t watched where he was going and tripped into Diana as she was leaving the post office, a parcel from Aunt Josephine tucked in her arms. After helping her to her feet, Jerry had offered to escort her home and carry the parcel. It was a paltry excuse to stay in her company, but Diana hadn’t minded. While they’d walked, he spoke of his book and offered to loan it to her and she’d taken Jerry up on his offer._

_That was how it all began._

_Once she’d finished_ Frankenstein _, Diana and Jerry met in secret under the covered bridge, spending a whole afternoon discussing the story with promises to share another novel. That led to even more stolen hours under the bridge and long discussions of_ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _,_ Dracula _,_ War of the Worlds _, and_ The Invisible Man _._

_“It wasn’t the books, you know,” Jerry said gently, bringing Diana back from her musings as his lips brushed the confession against her temple._

_Feeling her heart race, Diana dared to tip her head back and look at the tall boy. She watched as Jerry’s face transformed into something unbearably tender and had to swallow back a gasp when he raised a hand to run the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She’d always thought him handsome – Jerry was so tall and lean muscled and had that sweet smile – but this was the first time Diana found herself thinking of her friend in terms of how his eyes sparkled with desire, and how his hands warmed every part of her they touched, and how his mouth looked as delicious as a cinnamon roll._

_“For me, it was always about spending time with you,” he admitted. “I will miss our hours together.”_

_“Me, too,” she said, reaching for his fingers and holding his hand against her cheek. “I’ll miss us.”_

_“Diana?” Jerry asked, only a bit hesitant, the slight stammer in his words telling the young woman exactly what the boy was going to ask her before he did. “May I kiss you?”_

_A shattering cry of ‘happy new year!’ erupted from the bellows of the town hall just then, indicating that midnight had arrived._

_And as Avonlea celebrated under a shower of confetti streamers and choruses of ‘_ Auld Lang Syne _’, Diana Barry kissed Jerry Baynard for the first time, a secret celebration heralding both the new year and something so much more for the star-crossed lovers…_

* * *

“Oh, Diana,” Anne sighed, lying with her bosom friend on the cloudy cushion of Diana’s massive four poster bed. “A first kiss at the stroke of midnight. It sounds perfectly romantic.”

“It was,” Diana replied, cuddling into Anne’s side. “Every story you’ve ever told me about true love, the ones with bird songs and parting clouds and heaving hearts, all of it was my sweet reality.”

“For six months!” Anne exclaimed. “I still can’t believe you kept it a secret so long. And from me! Your bosom friend!”

“I had good reason to keep Jerry and I a secret, not just from you, but everyone. I know we make no sense, that we’re from such different circles, and I knew every wonderful thing we’d built together in our solidary castle of dreams was sure to crumble the moment we were discovered.

“Do you think I’ll ever live down that wretched scene at the fair? Have the old biddies stopped gossiping yet? Are the girls still tittering behind my back? Will my mother ever cease her dramatic sobbing over the ruination I’ve wrought on our household?”

“Dearest,” Anne consoled, kissing Diana’s brow then gently wiping away the tears that marred her perfect skin.

“I really do love him,” Diana confessed. “And he loves me. And the world would rather see us separated and miserable for the rest of our days than let us just be.”

“Why do you love him?” Anne asked, causing Diana to shoot a cross look at her friend. “I only mean…it’s _Jerry_! I can’t picture him as anything but that. Just Jerry. Annoying, bothersome, big-brother-I-never-wanted Jerry. I can’t picture him as a romantic hero on horseback, or a melancholy lord who reads poetry amongst misty moors, or a dashing rogue sailing the seven seas hunting for treasure and adventure.”

“But that’s where you’ve got it all wrong, Anne,” Diana explained, slipping into her sage tone. “The romantic ideals of our novels are just that: ideals. They’ll never match up to real life, and nor should they – everyone deserves a fantasy. I won’t say Jerry is the perfect suitor, but I will say he’s perfect for me.”

“How do you mean?”

“He listens to me. Supports my ambitions. Wants to see me go to college, would be happy to work and save money for us to marry while I toiled away at school to become a concert pianist. He’d even stay at the homefront while I traveled to play my music. He wants me to be happy and I want the same for him. I think he brings out a playfulness in me not even you could reach, Anne. Jerry makes me feel safe, and beautiful, and wanted, and like I am more than an ornament. He asks my opinion, asks me to explain, invites me to try and understand his world of farming and doesn’t make me feel a fool when I don’t know the difference between a trowel and a hoe.

“I love him because I am the best, truest me when I’m with him. And even if we’re apart, I know myself better for loving him.”

Anne was mesmerized by Diana’s passionate declaration, remembering that day when she’d walked Josie home and told her troubled friend that one’s beau should do exactly what Diana had just so poetic declared Jerry did for her. Watching Diana speak of her love, Anne witnessed as her dearest friend transformed from a timid schoolgirl to a worldly woman, radiant with confidence. There was no doubt in Diana’s heart that Jerry Baynard was the love of her life, and Anne was in awe of such adoration.

“Then I wish you and Jerry a miracle of Austenian proportions,” Anne said, kissing Diana’s cheek. “Surely there must be some way to convince your parents –”

“They’ve already booked me passage to Paris,” Diana answered sadly, and Anne felt her heart break.

“But you weren’t supposed to go until the end of August!”

“Mother and father feel my dalliance warrants an expedient departure. I’m leaving for Charlottetown in two days.”

“Two days! Just two days left with you?! Oh Diana!”

The kindred spirits sobbed in each other’s arms, raging against the unfairness of parents, and society, and tragical love. They sent the Barry’s maid away when she brought up a tray of tea and cookies, preferring to wallow in their unhappiness than play at being proper. Now was not the time for silver and scones; now was the time for cherishing each precious minute they had left together.

Later in the afternoon, when their eyes itched from too many tears and their faces were twin blotches of sorrow, Anne and Diana sat in the cushioned window seat of Diana’s room, pledging themselves to one another just as they had the first day they met, swearing fealty, love, and lots of letters.

“Enough of this,” Diana announced, dabbing at her damp eyes. “I must insist that the remainder of your visit be cheerful. No more tears.”

“I can only promise to do my very best,” Anne said.

“I want to revisit the subject of secrets,” Diana declared, a spark of mischief twinkling in her dark eyes. “I wasn’t the only bosom friend keeping a hidden beau, may I remind you,” she said shrewdly, giving Anne a playful poke in the side.

“I was hardly keeping a hidden beau,” she argued.

“You kissed Gilbert Blythe! Several times!”

“But he’s not my beau.”

“Anne!” Diana sighed, looking at her friend with fond frustration. “Gilbert has been your beau for far longer than Jerry and I have been courting. He’s been smitten with you since you slapped him upside the head with your slate. He’d admit it himself if you just asked.”

“Right. If I just asked,” Anne echoed, thinking of all the questions she hadn’t yet asked Gilbert; all the many things they hadn’t said even if they did manage to share a few fragile truths in the Tunnel of Love three days ago.

“Anne, I’m going to ask you a question, and please, do answer earnestly. You are in love with Gilbert, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Anne responded with forlorn honesty.

“But you seemed so sure he was your destiny at the fair,” Diana reminded, taking Anne’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Anne said. “Only I’ve been thinking and…what do I really know about love? I’ve never loved anyone like _that_ before, so how can I be sure? I know I said things at the fair, and there were feelings – horribly confusing wonderful feelings – but the more I think about it, the more I realize I simply don’t understand how I feel; how he makes me feel. He’s the only one I think about in that way, but love? How does one know? And how can I be sure enough to say it to him?”

“That is a pickle,” Diana agreed.

Jerry had said he loved her multiple times, but Diana hadn’t returned the words because she hadn’t known the truth of her own feelings. It was only when Jerry was being ripped away from her at the fair and the vast endless days that held no promise of his laugh, or singing, or kisses, or touch flashed before her eyes that Diana had finally _known_. When she’d declared her love for Jerry in the heart of the fair, it was the first time she’d said the words aloud and it felt as good as flying to finally release the sentiment into the air and have him know the truth.

And no matter what her parents had planned, they could never take that away.

“In books characters just know,” Anne lamented, “but this feels like something that I can’t quite grasp. My whole life I was sure any romance that was my own would be tragical and unrequited.”

“And now that it is requited?”

“But I don’t know that it is!”

“But of course it is! Have you seen the way Gilbert looks at you?”

‘ _His eyes were so full of romance_ …’ Ruby’s voice echoed in Anne’s memory, and she couldn’t help but blush, something Diana took great joy in teasing her about.

“We haven’t talked about…us.”

“At all?” Diana wondered.

“Not really,” Anne said, thinking of the way Gilbert had held her hands when he’d told her there would never be anyone for him but her. That confession was more precious than gold and at the time Anne was sure she felt the same way, cradling the words within her heart as delicately as she might hold a fragile seashell washed up on the beach from the bottom of the ocean. She hadn’t been able to answer Gilbert that day, and now that three days had passed since the fair, Anne had only succeeded in tangling her thoughts and feelings for Gilbert so thoroughly that even Alexander the Great couldn’t hope to undo the knot she’d constructed. “Something always gets in the way.”

“Like what?”

“Like storms and babies and funerals and pretty blond clerks.”

“I thought the whole Miss Rose thing was a misunderstanding; water under the bridge.”

“It is,” Anne grumbled, still sore over the Winifred Rose incident.

After all, she’d been so quick to believe Gilbert would trade her in for a prettier girl that it made Anne wonder if she did love him when she was so easily able to believe he’d be better off without her. Then again, she had once read that if you truly loved someone the greatest means of showing such a love was to let them go, so perhaps her ready acceptance of Gilbert finding another match – one that was as pretty as she was charming and connected – was proof she did love him with all her heart…

…but it could also mean she didn’t love him with as much devotion as the poets claimed she should, since she hadn’t even considered putting up a fight for Gilbert, merely had been resigned to step aside and allow him to leave, like she believed their parting to be inevitable.

“Everything is so confusing!” she exclaimed, fiddling with one of her braids, almost wishing Gilbert was around to give it a tug. “And now with the entrance exams taking up time – and not just mine but Gilbert’s also – it’s not as if we’ve had a spare moment to talk about our feelings –”

“About how in love you two are, yes,” Diana interrupted impishly. “So, why not after the exams?” she wondered, bumping Anne’s shoulder. “You write them tomorrow afternoon. Josie was saying everyone’s going to the Ruins after to celebrate. I’m sure you can find a spare moment to talk then.”

“Maybe…”

“Anne, please heed me.”

“Because you are the grounded and wise elder in our friendship?”

“Exactly,” Diana responded. “Don’t let love slip through your fingers. You and Gilbert have a true chance at happiness and I insist you take it. It would be the pinnacle of regret if the pair of us ended with tragical romances. One of us ought to be happy, don’t you think? So, write the exams, go to the Ruins, and then maybe after you’ve confessed your undying love for Gilbert you can sneak off into the woods and kiss some more!”

Diana cackled when Anne shoved her off the window seat, her body thumping on the carpet so loudly that Mrs. Barry marched into the bedroom without knocking, her face a mask of disappointment and displeasure.

“I think it’s time for you to head home, Anne,” she said in her most snobbish tone.

“Oh mother, please can’t she –”

“No, Diana, she can’t,” Mrs. Barry replied sternly. “Come along, Anne.”

With a shrug to her friend, Anne helped Diana up from the floor and the pair hugged tight, reciting poetical farewells and promising to see each other before Diana was bound for Charlottetown in two days’ time. She followed Mrs. Barry down the stairs and to the front door, putting her boater atop her head before making to depart the house.

“Before you leave, empty your pockets,” Mrs. Barry instructed, not allowing the redhead to cross the threshold. Confused, Anne did as the woman bade, turning the pockets of her skirt inside out so the stern woman could see that they were void. “And your sleeves. Pull up your cuffs.”

“Mrs. Barry –”

“I know you had nothing to do with helping Diana arrange her clandestine meetings with _that boy_ , but I also know you are a loyal friend. My husband and I are determined to end this wretched affair, and I would not put it past you to agree to secret messages between Diana and… _him_. So, turn up your sleeves.”

Anne did as Mrs. Barry bade, and when the woman was convinced there wasn’t a secret note tucked away in the cuffs of her dress or written on the inside of her arm, she opened the door and bid Anne a good day. Walking down the Barry’s long winding drive, Anne looked up to Diana’s bedroom window and spotted her friend blowing her a kiss goodbye. Anne copied the action and started back for Green Gables, her heart beating wildly with a storm of churning feelings.

Feelings for Diana’s departure.

Feelings for Diana and Jerry’s forced separation.

Feelings for the big exam tomorrow afternoon.

Feelings for Gilbert that needed to be addressed.

It was all a bit too much to process together, and each thought deserved its own devoted time and consideration, so as she climbed over the gate to Green Gables, Anne’s first order was to head to the barn.

Jerry was rotating the hay with two of his brothers, Jacques who was a year older, and Jean who was three years younger. The boys had been hired on temporarily to help Jerry with the farm at least for the rest of the planting season and the following harvest. They were all singing as they worked, stopping when they noticed Anne and greeting her with playful smiles.

“Jerry, can I speak with you?” Anne asked, ushering the eighteen-year old to a tucked away corner.

“How is she?” he asked immediately, and Anne couldn’t help warming her heart to the idea of Jerry and Diana being romantically paired, especially when his love for her bosom friend was so apparent now that he wasn’t hiding it. Smiling, Anne lifted her skirt, causing Jerry to cough and turn his head away. She giggled silently to herself as she slipped her hand into her stocking and retrieved the letter Diana had given to her the moment they were left alone in her room.

“She asked me to put this directly in your hands,” Anne reported, feeling a tad smug that Mrs. Barry hadn’t found the love letter despite her best efforts to intercept it.

The letter was written on Diana’s personal stationary, a pretty pale blue that had her monogram on the top. The paper was folded in quarters and sealed with a wax stamp that had an engraving of a blue jay. Jerry handled the letter as delicately as if it were a baby, afraid to smudge the surface with dirt from his fingers.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed, surging forward to hug Anne tight. The redhead returned the fierce embrace, and she resolved to say a special prayer that night for Diana and Jerry, prepared to beg God for a miracle.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” she decided, giving Jerry the privacy he’d need to read Diana’s words.

With that good deed done and her mind at peace with that particular concern, Anne marched into her home to tackle the most pressing of matters that required her attention.

It was time to study for the entrance exams.

Not that Anne hadn’t been studying thoroughly for months. Even Mathew’s death and the radish distraction hadn’t put a dent in her stringent revision schedule. In her bedroom, Anne’s floor was littered with crinkled papers, broken quill nibs, and ink stain spots. Her bed was covered in books rather than her quilt, and her little desk sported a mountain of study sheets. Settling in a cozy spot on the floor warmed by the bright sun that poured through her window, Anne got to work.

She started with maths, by far her least favourite of subjects.

‘ _Better to get the worst of it over with first_ ’ as Marilla always said.

For an hour Anne reviewed formulas, sums, and sharpened her pencil down to the nub until at last decrying that there wasn’t a lick more she could learn about algebra or geometry. Next was science with its diagrams and hypotheses, then history with its unending tide of dates and a list of British monarchs with so many Henrys that Anne knew she would fumble at least one of them, and finally English.

She’d saved her very favourite subject for last and savoured it like one would a rich dessert. Anne hummed to herself as she leafed through Shakespeare, recited Tennyson, and guffawed at Dickens. She repeated grammar rules, and rhymed off literary norms, and conducted her own private spelling bee.

And as she rounded out each vowel and consonant of ‘onomatopoeia’, Anne was reminded of the first spelling bee she’d ever competed in, but more importantly, she remembered who she’d competed against. 

She wondered if Gilbert was studying the afternoon away like she was. If he was cloistered in his bedroom, or perhaps had made a den of notes in the parlour so he could entertain Baby Mathew in-between chemistry algorithms, or maybe he’d set himself up in his orchard surrounded by blossoms and the scent of apples.

Anne sighed when that image came to mind, thinking Gilbert would look positively radiant dappled in pastoral surroundings, a flower crown adorning his curls and a book in his lap, sunlight warming his skin, maybe an apple in one hand that he was raising slowly to his mouth, a bit distracted by whichever medical note he was reading, the sweet skin brushing against his lips, his teeth biting into the flesh with a satisfying crunch while juice dribbled down his chin, his tongue peeking out to catch the drops…

Anne’s own stuttering sigh startled her, the redhead almost leaping up at how wanton she sounded. It was both thrilling and frightening, that wonderous tickle seeming to enfold her thighs, and no amount of pacing, or jumping, or rubbing could get the sensation to settle.

Restless, Anne pulled out her keepsake box, a beautiful cedar case that Mathew had made for her for her fourteenth birthday – her first birthday as a Shirley-Cuthbert. The carving on the lid was of Green Gables, the Snow Queen in full bushy splendor and Belle grazing in the fields. Reverently, Anne removed the top, grey eyes exploring the treasures within, seeking a certain trinket.

Pushing aside letters from Cole and Aunt Jo she’d tied together with twine, more postcards from Ms. Stacy during her summer travels, and a jar filled with pretty stones Anne had collected over the years, the sixteen-year old found what she was looking for.

The little red dictionary seemed smaller than she remembered as she cradled it in her palm, and Anne wondered if she’d really grown all that much since that Christmas nearly two years ago. Closing her eyes to steady herself, Anne took deep breath and leafed through the pages until she found the word she was after.

“ _Love: an intense feeling of deep affection_ ,” she whispered to herself.

Memorizing the definition, Anne used her thumbs to sort through the pages until she found the next word buzzing about her mind.

“ _Affection: a gentle feeling of fondness or liking.”_

Then another word.

“ _Fond: cherished with great affection or to prize highly.”_

Finally, she sought the last word to quell her mind’s rampant interest.

“ _Cherish: to hold dear; to entertain or harbour in the mind deeply and resolutely_ ,” she recited, and Anne found herself smiling softly.

Tenderly, the redhead placed the dictionary on her dresser and looked at her refection. She was pleased the matured maid she’d found in the glass on her sixteenth birthday remained. A little sadder, perhaps, and more freckles than she cared for spotting across her nose, but still the same girl. Except there was something glittering in the corners of her grey eyes.

“What secrets are you keeping, Katie?” Anne asked her reflection, wishing she’d hear an answer. If Katie could tell her if she was in love, truly _in love,_ with Gilbert, then Anne felt the restless rolling in her heart might finally cease.

She knew she liked Gilbert (liked him very much and possibly even better than she liked anything or anyone, save for Diana, of course) and agreed with her little dictionary that she cherished the boy a great deal for she held him very dear in her mind and heart and very possibly her soul. She was fond of him, too, had endearing affection for him, but love…Anne simply didn’t know.

The not knowing was vexing, but strangely, the idea of knowing for certain was completely terrifying, almost so much so that Anne nearly vowed a dozen times that she’d rather never know if she loved Gilbert or if he loved her. She almost convinced herself she could be content with simply courting Gilbert, of holding hands and kissing and spending hours in each others’ company and never knowing if love lived between them.

But that would never satisfy her.

All her life Anne had been seeking love.

She’d been so starved for it as a child that she grasped at any scrap she could find and clung tightly. Avonlea had been her salvation, for in this little village on Prince Edward Island she’d finally found all the many faces of love she’d been searching for: the bosom love of a cherished friend, the unconditional love of family, the comforting – if firm – love lauded by a mentor, and even the congenial love shared between neighbours and community. But passionate love, romantic love, were always expressions Anne had assumed to be closed to her. And even though she’d kissed Gilbert, and he’d kissed her, and he’d been clear on his intentions to court her properly, Anne realized that she was still acting as if the gates of romance were sealed to her.

But they weren’t.

Or, they didn’t have to be.

If she dared push on that gate, Anne wondered if she’d feel any resistance or if the rails would swing open and invite her to cross their threshold. There was only one way to find out, and the first step was to open her heart and mind to the idea that love (not tragical, but earnest, passionate, over-the-moon true love) was a tangible possibility; that she was as deserving of receiving love as she was of readily giving it.

‘ _No one but you is allowed to dictate what you’re worth_ ,’ she’d said to Josie that day in the woods, and Anne knew it was time to heed her own advice.

That night, Anne was tucked snug in her bed at a reasonable hour (Marilla was strict that a good night’s sleep was essential in rejuvenating the mind), her open window allowing a sweet scented breeze to perfume her room, loose wisps of her red hair lazily tickling across her pillow. And as list after list of formulas, theories, sonnets, and definitions spun across her mind in a fading cyclone of knowledge, Anne clutched the little red dictionary to her heart and permitted herself to dream of a future with a white house by the sea, and wild roses in the garden, a black and white cat in the window, a dog barking by the door, and inside a curly haired doctor waiting for her with romantic hazel eyes.

* * *

“I’m dying!”

“You’re not.”

“My heart’s about to explode!”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s beating too fast!”

“That’s just nerves. You need to try and occupy your mind.”

“Moody? Come do cat’s cradle with me?” Ruby requested sweetly, holding her hands out, a long string looped over and around her fingers.

Moody was granted a short second of reprieve from his escalating anxiety attack as he admired his pretty sweetheart, but then Charlie snatched the brown paper bag he’d been hyperventilating in to and promptly vomited his breakfast out in loud and indecorous fashion, so Moody really had little choice but to join Ruby on the church steps and allow her to twist the string around his fingers and show him how to play.

Gilbert watched the couple with a twinge of envy, his eyes glancing at Anne who was leaning against the door of the church, a notebook in her hands and her full attention dedicated to the study notes she was reviewing. She hadn’t even managed to say a proper ‘good day’ to him when they and their classmates had gathered in front the church to wait for the examiner, barely mumbling the words before roosting before the door to cram.

He wished she’d study him the way she studied her notes.

Smiling at the silly thought and deciding he’d have to put it in a letter to his redheaded dearest just to make her blush, Gilbert focused his own attentions to the notes in his hands. He rapidly recited the periodic table, rhymed off every chemical composition of the elements he could remember, and then whizzed through historic events he thought had a good chance of appearing on the exam

He was nervous, but a good sort of nervous, his stomach flipping with the kind of rushing swoop one felt when they climbed a tree and looked down and were suddenly filled with a sense of thrilling trepidation at how high they were. He was ready to write these exams and he wished time would hurry so he and the rest of his classmates could cluster around the sparse tables set up inside the church and get this important afternoon over and done with.

“Overwrought?”

Snapped from his musings, Gilbert turned his head and found Anne looking at him from her perch. She was standing straight and still, her braids tightly cinched and a smile pinching the corners of her mouth as she looked down at the little red dictionary in her palms She dared to glance at him for a second, grey eyes shimmering with mirth, before returning her attention to the dictionary, and waiting with toe-taping impatience.

“You kept it?” Gilbert asked, surprised and tender as he admired how Anne’s freckled fingers cupped the first gift he’d ever given her.

It had been a long time since Gilbert had thought about that dictionary, and longer still since he’d allowed himself to daydream about that Christmas which seemed much further in the past than simply two years. He’d hoped, of course, that Anne treasured the little pocket dictionary he’d bought for her, even supposed she might have kept it, but to have confirmation was truly almost as wonderful as kissing her over and over.

“Ahem!” Anne clicked, eyes darting between the dictionary and Gilbert, more amusement than frustration tinting her unsubtle throat clearing.

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all, never having been sorry when it came to his feelings for Anne. He was quick to catch on to what she wanted of him but was a bit sheepish when he had to ask her to repeat the word she wished him to spell.

“Overwrought.”

“O-V-E-R-W-R-O-U-G-H-T.”

“Very good. Intrepidity.”

“That’s not how the game goes,” Gilbert quipped, thinking that he and Anne must have been playing their spelling-bee competition for well over a month.

“I’m not playing. I’m helping you study,” Anne retorted, trying on the teacher’s tone she’d been practicing to perfect. While she wasn’t quite able to achieve the firmness every child associated with their teachers, the message that there was no arguing with her was loud and clear.

“I-N-T-R-E-P-I-D-I-T-Y.”

“Dauntlessness.”

And on and on the spelling went for the next ten minutes, Anne rapidly shuffling through the little dictionary while Gilbert dutifully dictated every word she pressed him to spell. He found himself smiling when he recognized that the words Anne was feeding him were all to do with confidence and bravery; no doubt her way of telling him to not be frightened of the examination. It was humbling to know Anne had such faith in him, but not hard to imagine since he had the same unwavering belief in her.

The game came to an abrupt stop when Charlie frantically announced the arrival of the examiner and all the youths scattered as the burly man hurried past them and into the church. With lowered heads and quick handshakes for luck, the Avonlea crew filed in after the examiner. Gilbert started up the stairs but was stopped when Anne gripped his shoulders, not allowing him to pass until the rest of their classmates were sequestered inside. Casting a brief glance around to assure they were alone, Anne then surged forward to plant a firm, almost giddy kiss to his lips.

The young man was stunned but quick to reciprocate, dropping his notes to cup Anne’s face and return her kiss with matched eagerness. He felt her smile against his mouth and was compelled to nibble at her bottom lip, which made Anne chuckle before giving into a gentle groan when Gilbert didn’t let up on his sweet assault. It felt right and perfect to be back in Anne’s arms; to take her kiss and have her take his.

He chased her when she pulled away, managing to snag a few rapid pecks before Anne left his embrace.

“Shall we?” she asked, waving her arm back towards the open door.

“Let’s do this, Carrots.”

He chuckled when she rolled her eyes, but the pair made their way to the door together.

“Will I see you at the Ruins later?” Anne asked before they crossed the threshold.

Gilbert hadn’t given much thought to the graduation celebration his classmates had been whispering about almost as much as they’d been panicking over the examination. The promise of games, dancing, secret snuggling, clandestine necking (for those who were interested) and some moonshine had tickled Gilbert’s curiosity, but not enough that he’d been distracted from his intense revision. In fact, he knew the only reason he’d even give the party a second thought was if Anne was going to be there. 

“I might be a bit late – I have to help Bash fix the hitch on the wagon – but I’ll be there,” he told her.

Anne smiled and it was as if a sun was erupting in Gilbert’s chest.

“Great! Oh! One more thing.”

“Yes?” Gilbert asked, hoping she’d give him another kiss, just something soft and sweet for good luck on the exam. When she simply held her hand out to him he wasn’t disappointed, only a bit confused, at least until she quirked her lips playfully and spoke.

“Now, may I please have my pen back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely readers!
> 
> I have missed you all so much! How are you all? Safe? Healthy? Bored to tears or run off your feet? I hope your loved ones are all safe, and I mean that most sincerely from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> It certainly has been a long time, eh?
> 
> This chapter took forever to write, my job only allowing for short bursts of writing here and there while I struggled at times just to find the energy to let the creative juices flow, but I must say I'm pretty proud of the finished product. 
> 
> This chapter was fun to write, particularly the Anne/Diana dialogue and the Shirbert flirting. Originally I hadn't intended to write Mrs. Barry in this chapter, but she insisted on being present, and so I had a great time writing her little part where all her furious attempts at ceasing her daughter's affair were for naught (Anne and Diana are just too clever!). 
> 
> I'd also like to give a shout-out to this chapters MVP: the little pocket dictionary!
> 
> I was so thrilled when the dictionary came back in S3 and I knew it must return in my story, too. It's just...it's the most perfect Shirbert memento, and I always get horribly excited when I think of Gilbert finding out that Anne kept the little Christmas gift he gave her; almost as excited as I get when I think of Anne carefully tucking the gift away in her chest of keepsakes. 
> 
> So sweet :)
> 
> And I'm sure y'all are wondering what was in the note dear Diana wrote for Jerry. Was it a passionate confession, heartbreaking goodbye, a picture of a cow, a reading list...I'm not telling!
> 
> But all will be revealed in time; never you fear. 
> 
> And speaking of time, I'm afraid I'm not able yet to fully commit to the weekly posting schedule I had started out with. 
> 
> I am still writing, and I will see 'Dear Anne' finished, but I just can't promise that I will be able to give all of you wonderful, dear, and sweet readers a new chapter each week. I will promise to do my best, and I thank you all so much for understanding. I hope we will get to speak again with each other very soon.
> 
> Next Chapter: The Ruins...I think you all remember what happened there ;)
> 
> For everyone reading (or re-reading), commenting, kudos-ing, bookmarking, and recommending, I most humbly thank you.
> 
> Take care of each other!


	15. What's Holding You Back?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ruins are aptly named...you'll see why.

_‘Dear Anne,_

_Nothing worthwhile is ever easily come by. Sacrifices must so often be made in the pursuit of knowledge, happiness, truth, and love._

_Indeed, love above all else…’_

* * *

The Ruins were exactly that: the crumbling carcass of what used to be a squat stone lighthouse that stood sentry along the western shore of Avonlea when the village was little more than a half-dozen farms at the turn of the last century.

The local legend was that a hurricane had violently slammed against the coast and simply swept the lighthouse and her keeper off into the ocean one dark stormy night. The keeper had been a retired sailor known as Captain Jim, a man said to have been born with the sea in his blood, and so it seemed perfectly poetic that it was the sea that should take him to the Great Beyond. Since that wretched storm, it was believed that the spirit of Captain Jim and his loyal Newfoundland – a bushy black pooch that was the only companion the kind captain had – wandered the cliffside, continuing to keep watch over the village as well as any lost ships edging too close to shore.

Every family in Avonlea had a relative who had a friend who had a great uncle twice removed who claimed to have seen Captain Jim, and children had been daring each other for generations to spend a night camped out alone in the Ruins so that they might shake hands with the ghostly guardian.

While the paranormal tales were certainly gave Avonlea a refreshingly interesting mythology, the actual Ruins themselves were not nearly as ghastly or mysterious as one might expect.

All that truly remained of the lighthouse was three deteriorated foundation walls, each more dilapidated than the last and so eroded that the crumbling stone was obscured from sight by the tall grass that grew like a jungle around the cliffside. There was an old tool shed shaded by some trees near the collapsed walls, the wood planks and shingles so rotten that the entire structure had a defined sag, and anything worth a penny sequestered in the old shed had been looted long ago. Finally, an overturned skiff, half buried in the dirt parallel to one of the walls and cemented to the land by decades of sea salt air, was all that made up the haunted Ruins of Avonlea.

The class of 1899 were rambunctious in their takeover of the area, tossing their hats into the sky and cheering so loudly their victory cries could be heard above the crash of the waves. Gathering in a circle to congratulate one another on completing their college entrance exams, handshakes and hugs were exchanged before a bottle of moonshine that Moody had convinced an older cousin of his to procure was passed around, each of the young graduates taking a generous swig (and most giving a grimacing screech at the sour burning the potent liquor left in their throats) before setting to work.

The boys tackled the old tool shed with gusto, taking it apart board by board and sorting the salvageable wood so they could make a truly lavish bonfire right in the centre of the Ruins. The girls rolled logs against one of the walls and laid blankets over the salt sodden oak, crafting comfortable spots to sit. Then everyone unloaded their baskets, creating a jumbled spread of cold chicken legs, potato salad tossed with vinegar and chives, cheese biscuits dusted with rosemary, bowls of mixed berries, jars of whichever fruit preserves their mothers wouldn’t notice missing from the pantry, hard cheese, oatmeal cookies baked fresh that morning, lemon custard tarts, slices of ham, and tomato halves seasoned with salt and pepper.

While the group dined as if they were a court of pagan Romans, (lounging wherever they pleased, some with their heads in the laps of their sweetheart, some making a game of tossing food in their mouths in absurd ways, some forgoing the silverware Jane had snuck from her mother’s collection and eating with their bare hands) Josie got the idea to leave their mark for other generations of Avonlea youth to discover.

Where the paint came from no one knew or questioned, but the company certainly encouraged Josie as she decorated one of the old crumbling walls with an immortal message:

‘ _Class of ‘99  
The best of the best  
Forget the rest’_

“A toast!” Anne announced when Josie had finished, raising the half-consumed bottle of moonshine above her head. A hush fell over the rambunctious group who gave their flame-haired peer their undivided attention, and Anne smiled at the many familiar – and mostly dear – faces. “I think Ms. Stacy once said it best: dreamers change the world. And that is indeed what we are all on the cusp of achieving – our dreams! I insist that every one of you must step out into this new, glorious world before us and spread your wings and soar! Our journey has just begun, and I haven’t a doubt that the adventures we are about to pursue will be both exhilarating and monumental.

“We must make a promise to ourselves and to our beloved Avonlea that we will conquer new horizons, be brave and bold and true, and make our island proud! The world is ours, and it is too spectacular that even my own exceedingly robust imagination cannot hope to grasp the infinite ripples of possibility. And so I say…to us!”

Anne’s classmates went unhinged as they hooted and hollered in praise of her homily, chanting, clapping, and stomping as she took two large gulps of moonshine, gasping as the booze left a hot sensation coursing down her throat and up into her sinuses.

“And now,” she decided, cheeks aflame and eyes glassy as she thrust the bottle at Charlie, “a game!”

“Simon Says!”

“Blindman’s Bluff!”

“Mother May I?!”

“Sly Fox!”

“Red Rover!”

The applause for Red Rover was the loudest and so that was the game the class of ’99 was to play just as the sun touched the horizon and the Ruins were cloaked in mischievous twilight.

Linking hands, the game of Red Rover went on for nearly an hour, teams regaling in calling out to each other, some too exuberant in their determination to break the chain when it was their turn to be ‘it’ while others made pathetic attempts simply because they were seeking an excuse to hold their crush’s hand (and to take another sip of moonshine – ‘losers take a swig’ had been the boys’ idea of a new rule).

Soon it was dark. By the time the group decided they’d had their fill of the game, the sky above was a velvet quilt of stars, but there was no moon to offer radiant light. Only the fire provided illumination and warmth, the wicked flickering flames keeping the nest of the Ruins wrapped in a strange magic. It was a heady, wild energy that seemed to course through the blood of all the collected youth, making them hyper with anticipation for…something.

Anne embraced the magic, her skin flush with it (and the rum) as she let loose a piercing squeal before taking a running leap at the half-buried skiff and landed atop the upturned boat with teetering grace, earning the impressed applause of her peers.

“Gather ‘round, school-mateys!” the sixteen-year old crooned in her best pirate impression. “Come gather ‘round and listen tay the wise words of Ol’ Capin’ Jim.”

“Preach!” Moody cried, raising the bottle of moonshine over his head, taking a sip before offering it to Ruby, having not released her hand since the first round of Red Rover when he’d been ‘unsuccessful’ in breaking the chain. Cheekily, Moody snuck a kiss while Ruby took a swig of the liquor, missing her cheek and getting her earlobe instead. The affectionate peck had the blond giggling manically, moonshine dribbling down her chin and staining the collar of her dress.

“Don’t be wastin’ the good rum, ye young lovebirds,” Anne teased as she observed the pair. “Cease yer woolgatherin’ and tell me: why does it take a pirate so long ‘ta learn the alphabet?”

Anne’s classmates whooped and hollered as she gave a hearty performance, pitching her voice low and gravely while taking her loose red hair (the braids had come out sometime between the picnic and the fifth round of Red Rover) in her hands and holding the tresses under her chin as if she’d sprouted a ridiculous beard.

“Well?” she asked impatiently.

“Tell us!” Jane demanded through a powerful chortle.

“Because he spends years at ‘C’!”

The students laughed, their messy happiness filling the night.

“And can ‘ye tell me this: what’s the difference between a hungry pirate and a drunken pirate?” No one knew and many cried out for the answer. “One has a rumbling tummy, and the other’s a tumbling rummy!”

Josie laughed so hard at that one she got dizzy, Jane linking arms with the girl while the rest of their friends cheered and applauded Anne, some crying out for another joke. Buzzing with adrenaline, Anne was enthusiastic to oblige her classmates and kept them entertained for the better part of a half-hour, her performance spurring on the spirits of all that were gathered. A thrill, not unlike the relishing unending shiver one got when a ball of fresh snow was shoved down their back, worked its way from the inside out of Anne, and she felt marvellously light as she carried on making jokes and telling stories. It was as if she were indeed possessed; perhaps by Captain Jim himself, but Anne rather suspected it was the island that had taken root deep in her body.

When her pirate tales ran as dry as the bottle of moonshine, Anne’s audience began to disperse.

From her perch on the skiff, the redhead observed as a few of her peers returned to the scraps of their abandoned picnic, picking away at the leftovers as a comfortable lethargy relaxed their muscles and had their eyes drooping. Others took up sticks and played at sword fighting, while those not as coordinated opted to etch a game of tic-tac-toe into the dirt. Jane was trying to convince Charlie to let her climb on his back and have him parade her around like a trotting mustang, and Josie scandalized everyone when she shucked her stockings, flashing her bare legs and not caring a fig if word of her behaviour got back to her mother. A circle of boys huddled near the old shed and passed a cigarette around, each of them coughing tremendously as they took their first puff, and though she had to squint, Anne was sure she spotted Tillie ushering at least one (but maybe both?) of the Pauls into the depths of the tall grass, suspecting they might be hoping to take advantage of the darkness to pass kisses back and forth.

It made Anne’s heart clench, and her body tingle in wonderful agony, and she wondered if Gilbert was ever going to join the party.

Not that Anne knew very much about wagon hitches and their repairing, but it seemed to her that it was taking Gilbert an awfully long time to arrive, and she was thoroughly stuck on if she should be cross or elated with him whenever he dared to make his appearance.

“Moody, play a song,” Ruby requested, snuggled tight to her beau and resting her chin on his shoulder. Though it was awkward, Moody managed to keep Ruby lounged beside him as he picked up his banjo and started playing a jig.

The music invigorated the group, most coming together to dance and clap, their footwork clumsy and their laughter slurred as they tried to recreate The Dashing White Sergeant but quickly gave up in favour of simply spinning, and hopping, and reeling round and round. Feeling the beat of the music in her bones, Anne started skipping along the tipped skiff, her hair a mess of red swaying over her shoulders and back as she raised her arms to the moonless sky and basked in the joy of the moment.

Her exams were over, her future was in the hands of Fate, she was among friends, and the Bride of Adventure, and island magic was pumping in her blood, and she felt utterly invincible as the warmth from the fire caressed her body and the melody of the music wove its spell. 

She was in such a state of contentment that she never noticed the lone dot of yellow light making its way out of the darkness, up the steep hill, through the tall grass, over the crumbled walls, and straight for her.

* * *

Gilbert hurried up the embankment to the Ruins, his feet frantic as he stomped over brambles and dirt, eager in a way that was nearly terrifying for how urgent he felt.

He had to talk to Anne.

He had to talk to her _now_.

Things at the orchard had run a bit later than he’d thought, not just fixing the wagon but other things. Amazing things. Unimaginable things. Things that weighed heavy in his pocket, and the young man patted his trousers to assure himself the treasure – the very reason he was a twisted mess of joy and trepidation and pride and incredulity – was still there. It was, and he sighed.

He _really_ needed to talk to Anne.

The moonless night cast the woods in such a thick darkness that the light from his lantern seemed too weak to penetrate the blackness, only allowing the eighteen-year old a few mere feet of illumination on his journey along the slope. He had to rely on his other senses, of the resonance of his classmates’ laughter accompanied by the reliable twangs of Moody’s banjo, and the sharp smell of the sea mixed with the smoky comfort of an open fire, of the exciting vibrations that made the ground under his boots tremble as he neared the circle of chaotic dancers, and the tacky taste of salt and mirth on the air, growing stronger the closer he got.

Soon he was almost able to make out the spinning heads of Josie and Charlie peeping over the tall grass and he nearly tripped over Tillie and someone else (one of the Pauls…at least, he thought it was one of the Pauls, but maybe it was both?), before finally emerging into the clearing that made up the Avonlea Ruins.

He smirked at the scene of free-spirited, semi-intoxicated merriment, feeling both jealous and oddly grateful that he had arrived in the middle of what was clearly a wild evening. Now in the thick of it, Gilbert caught the perfume of sweat and alcohol that wafted off his classmates as if in clouds, amazed and aghast when Ruby – sweet little lady Ruby Gillis! – took him boldly by the wrist and spun him around with uncoordinated force.

“Gilber’s here!” she cheered, and the rest of the revelers whooped in welcome.

“Took you long enough,” Charlie said, aiming to pat Gilbert on the shoulder but missing in his state of dizziness from the spinning and drinking, and so he accidentally cuffed the back of Gilbert’s head and knocked his cap off. “S’rry.”

“Has anyone seen Anne?” Gilbert asked, leaving his cap to get trampled as he delicately turned his wrist out of Ruby’s grasp.

“She’s kinda hard to miss,” Josie commented (or maybe it was a backwards compliment?) as she swished her skirts back and forth, giggling when the draft from the sea tickled her naked knees. “Dance with me.”

“I really need to talk to –”

“Yes, yes, it’s always ‘Anne-this’, ‘Anne-that’ when it comes to you,” Josie grumbled dismissively. “Are you going to make googly eyes at her some more?”

“I don’t –”

“He does!” Jane agreed with the shrill excitement of one who has finally found the word that’s been tripping at the end of their tongue for ages.

“They’re not googly,” Ruby sniffed before Gilbert could attempt another defense of his Anne-staring, “they’re romantic. I’ve always said Gilbert has romantic eyes and you have all agreed with me.”

“We only agreed because you’d cry if we didn’t!”

And before Ruby could launch into a diatribe on whatever she had once said and thought of Gilbert’s eyes, the young man in question slipped away, having no interest in being involved in the silly squabble. He did shake his head fondly when Moody started plucking at his banjo harder to try and drown out the impassioned lecturing of his sweetheart, and just as he was trying to decide where he should start looking for Anne first, he heard a high, joyous cackle as powerful as thunder and as light as a feather, and he felt himself smiling without meaning to.

There was only one person in all the world whose laugh could make his heart hammer so thrillingly.

He started for the bonfire that burned brightly in the centre of the crumbled walls, his approaching shadow a long, flickering spectre behind him, like the cape of a dashing highwayman come to steal the jewels and a kiss from an unsuspecting lady. When he spotted her atop the skiff, Anne’s back was to him and so he was tempted to surprise her, thinking he’d catch her by the waist and spin her before holding her close, teasingly skimming their bodies together as he slowly lowered her to the ground.

But then Anne turned around and any ideas Gilbert had at playfulness vanished. 

Anne was pirouetting along the spine of the half-buried skiff, her hands above her head and her exuberant voice rhapsodizing the glory of the stars. Her face was tilted back as if the celestial bodies above were bathing her being in crystals, and the wild bonfire flames draped Anne in a cloak of warmth that left Gilbert in awe.

He could see every shade of red in her hair; the scarlet and mahogany, auburn and copper, a few wisps of gold and peeks of carrot that he loved so well. And then there was the hint of apple, just like the sweet red skin of his strawberry apples. He spotted that wicked hue just behind her ear when the wind picked up and flung Anne’s wonderful mane high above her head and over her shoulder, and he wondered if he buried his nose in that exact spot if she would smell as intoxicating as the orchard in September.

Gilbert didn’t remember dropping his lantern, but then again he wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe so he was hardly concerned. Mesmerized by the beautiful vision that was Anne, Gilbert approached slowly, drinking her in to his full satisfaction.

She looked ethereal. A child of Mother Nature, she was a sprite, a pixie, a dryad, a siren come to tempt him from the world of man and into her realm of magic. And there was no will in him to resist her. Even if he truly believed Anne was Faye come to ferry him away, Gilbert knew he’d go willingly without a second thought and leave everything behind in a heartbeat all to be with _her_.

He patted his pocket.

If there was any doubt in his mind (for there was never any doubt in his heart) before this moment, it was long gone.

“Gil! You’re here!” Anne crowed, finally noticing her audience of one. Gilbert tried to control the awed look on his face and smiled up at his sweetheart as she continued her merry jig atop the tipped skiff. “You’re also _very_ late,” she tutted. “I think I’m quite cross about that, but perhaps I’ll change my mind.”

When she looked over her shoulder to pin him with a positively coquettish smirk Gilbert was sure he physically felt Cupid’s bow penetrate his heart. Anne had no idea how radiant she looked against the flames and darkness, how her soul pulled poor Gilbert in like a bee drawn to a flower. She hadn’t a clue how much he loved her, how much he wanted her, and though she did finish her free-spirited dancing when she noticed how intensely Gilbert was staring, she still didn’t have a hope of guessing what secrets the night would reveal.

“May I speak with you?” he asked, his voice sounding strange in his ears; guttural and tinted with an emotion that could be either eagerness or desperation. He’d spoken softly, but his words carried easily to Anne, as if the sea breeze were pleased to be his messenger.

The gravity of his tone and expression quelled Anne’s playful mood, for looked down at Gilbert with a gentle smile freed from her previous teasing.

Gilbert raised his hand to Anne and she took it thoughtlessly, his fingers cool while hers ran hot, and she jumped off the capsized skiff, only loosing a bit of her balance, but Gilbert was glad to let her brace against him until she regained her footing.

“Sit with me by the fire?”

The request was met with a complying and glad nod, and soon the pair were perched together on a log before the roaring bonfire, as alone as they could get for the time being. For several long minutes only the crackling of the timber snapping in the flames served as conversation between Anne and Gilbert. They sat close to one another, their shoulders brushing with each breath they took, inhaling and exhaling in sync as they waited for the other to speak.

“It’s a lovely night,” Anne finally broached, her gaze casting to the stars overhead, the glittering dots reflecting in her grey eyes like gems. She looked magnificent, so much so Gilbert wasn’t shy to admit she took his breath away. Her profile was sharp, her freckles warm, her eyes limpid, lips plush, and her red hair was perfect in all its thick, matted unruliness as it cascaded down her back.

This wood sprite was every dream Gilbert had ever had about love and life and every hope he held for his future and he had to tell her just how much she meant to him; what he was prepared to do to be with her. Swallowing, Gilbert put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the very thing that had fuelled his speedy, desperate journey to her, and presented it to Anne as if he were a pilgrim and she a goddess he’d sought to pay humble tribute.

Anne’s eyes crossed comically as she looked down at the neatly folded telegram Gilbert held out to her in the palm of his hand. 

Without saying a word she took the paper and offered a quizzical expression, but Gilbert only crinkled his brows as indication that she should read the contents. Intrigued, Anne did just that. Gilbert watched her as the words on the page took their effect on Anne, and he wondered if his own face had gone from soft curiosity to fantastical astonishment when he’d first read the contents of the telegram. He also wondered if the amusement he felt as seeing Anne’s reaction could hold a candle to the excited high Bash had exhibited hours earlier when he’d watched Gilbert read the telegram, the silly man dancing like a fool around the kitchen table while Gilbert had blinked uncontrollably as he’d tried to grasp the news he held in his hand, utterly blindsided by the gift he’d been given.

“Oh, Gilbert…” Anne sighed when she finished her read and folded the telegram, keeping it cupped safely between her hands in her lap before turning astonished eyes to him. “This is remarkable!”

“I’m just as shocked as you,” he admitted, smiling and laughing both at once.

“It’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “When did it arrive?”

“It was already at the house when I finished the exam.”

“Tell me everything,” Anne demanded. “Leave no detail out.” And Gilbert knew he’d never get to press forward with what he truly wanted to discuss until he’d indulged Anne’s voracious inquisitiveness, so he did.

“Bash didn’t say anything. He let me toil away for two hours helping him with the hitch, and then when we were done and going in for dinner, he just casually mentioned that a telegram was delivered for me from Ottawa. And since I couldn’t think of anyone I knew from Ottawa I assumed it might be a mistake so I didn’t rush to read it. I washed up and changed Mathew’s nappy and went down to dinner and suddenly Mary was pushing the telegram in my hand and begging me to open it. When I saw it was from Mr. Rose…well, then I got a bit nervous,” Anne gave his arm a reassuring stroke then, and Gilbert smirked, “but I guess there was nothing to be nervous about. I was so shocked Bash snatched the paper out of my hand because I couldn’t get myself to read it out loud. He and Mary have been preening for hours. Mary even made my favourite dessert to celebrate.”

“Of course she did! This is something worthy of the most prodigious of celebrations! Your third letter of recommendation.”

“I didn’t know Mr. Rose was going to do that,” Gilbert confessed humbly. “I thought he only meant to give me his verbal reference. This is too much.”

“But it’s already done,” Anne chirped gladly, opening the telegram to scan it quickly before pointing cockily to the line that declared Nigel Rose had passed his letter of recommendation for Gilbert directly into the hands of Mr. Wilson, one president of Redmond University, only just the day before. “You’re a shoo-in for Redmond now. Oh, Gil! I’m so pleased!”

She leaned over to hug him tight and even snuck a quick peck to his cheek, unleashing a giddy little squeak when her lips pressed to his warm flesh. Gilbert could feel Anne smiling against his skin, and feel her solid and sweet in his arms, and the sensation made his next words all the easier to say.

“I’m not going.”

He thought Anne would squeeze him tighter at his revelation, or gasp lightly in his ear, or even push him off the log and demand further details of him. Instead, she froze in his embrace for several long seconds before slowly tipping herself away to look in his eyes.

Her ginger brows were scrunched in adorable confusion, mouth tightly pursed and grey eyes scanning his in glassy disquiet.

“Wh-what? I don’t…what do you mean?”

“I’m not going to Redmond,” Gilbert repeated, heart and mind at ease as he said the words. He had wondered if he’d feel a tinge of regret at his decision, but with Anne in his arms it was impossible to regret anything. He was happy.

However happy he was, though, Gilbert was also growing increasingly bewildered when the relieved expression he’d expected to see sweep across Anne’s face at his proclamation never came. Rather, Anne looked back at Gilbert with wide-eyed concern.

“Is something wrong?” she wondered panickily. “Are you not well? Or is it Baby Mathew? The orchard? Mr. Barry didn’t renege on his business with you and Bash, did he?”

“No. Everything and everyone is fine,” Gilbert answered.

“But that can’t be true!” Anne cried, wrenching herself out of Gilbert’s embrace and pinning him with frantic desperation. “What else could possibly keep you here?”

“Are you serious?!” Gilbert asked, his own voice rising in pitch to meet Anne’s, for the girl was on the edge of screaming and he was on the edge of exasperation that she could ask him such a thing.

“Redmond is your dream, Gil!” Anne insisted, slapping him on the chest, the gesture startling the boy enough that he flinched away. “And it is literally in the palm of your hands.” She shoved the crinkled telegram at him roughly before moving back to cross her arms over her chest and pout.

“Redmond is also hundreds of miles away from home.”

“As if that’s ever stopped you,” Anne sniffed. “You travelled on a steamship for a year.”

“That was different!” Gilbert defended. “Things were different…I was different.”

“No you weren’t,” Anne drawled back with that snooty air of superiority she always got when she was convinced she was right. It was enough to make Gilbert want to shake her, right before kissing her silly, maybe even nipping her lips for good measure. “You had big dreams then and you have big dreams now. You want to be a doctor, Gil, and Redmond is how that is going to happen.”

“I can get my medical licence from Queens as easily as I can from Redmond,” he argued.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Anne snorted, and part of Gilbert – a miniscule, easy to pack away and ignore part – was miserably cross that she was right.

Redmond was his dream.

He’d lost track of the hours he’d spent reading the campus information booklet he’d sent away for, memorizing the names of different lecture halls, writing inquiries to the science department’s faculty, daydreaming of the life he’d live, the subjects he’d study, the difference he would make if only he’d somehow get the chance to attend Redmond. And now that chance had been freely given. His dream, one he’d worked so hard for, had been served up to him on a silver platter, and while he could feel himself salivating over the scrumptious meal that was the result of too many all-nighters, lost Saturdays ensconced in Dr. Ward’s clinic, and a monumental feat in tireless effort, Gilbert was turning away from it all.

Had the situation been reversed and it was Anne snubbing her one opportunity to attend her preferred school, he’d be reacting exactly as she was.

But Anne didn’t know his reasoning for leaving Redmond behind.

She didn’t know that he’d give it all up. Redmond, medicine, opportunity, none of it mattered if it meant being away from her.

He loved Anne more than he loved all of his other dreams combined.

She was the real dream.

And Anne was going to Queens, so Gilbert would follow his dream and go to Queens, too. They would be together all through their college years. They would live and study in Charlottetown where they could attend lectures and plays and concerts together. They could take tea on Fridays, walks on Saturdays, and attend church on Sundays. Gilbert could call on Anne every week at her boarding house and the only distance between them would be no more than a half hour’s walk or a quick trek across campus. They could visit Avonlea together, sit side-by-side on the train, talk and joke and read and just _be_ together. 

And he could still become a doctor, perhaps not the kind of doctor he hoped to be (certainly, he’d not have access to such ground-breaking research or the impressive network of connections that Redmond offered) but what did that matter if it meant being with Anne?

Being with Anne trumped everything.

“—ill worried about money?” she asked, and Gilbert realized Anne had been lecturing him the entire time he’d been silently justifying his decision. “Because between your letters of reference, Mr. Rose’s personal recommendation, your test scores and the inheritance your father set aside for your education –”

“Two hundred dollars is hardly an inheritance.”

Anne slapped Gilbert on the chest again and the young man was instantly chagrined for speaking so flippantly of the last gift John Blythe had given him.

“I only mean the money barely covers one semester of study at Redmond,” Gilbert explained. “I need to support myself for at least six years of school.”

“That’s why Ms. Stacy got you to apply for the Avery scholarship.”

“Which we don’t know if I’ll get. We don’t even know for sure I’ll get into Redmond, for that matter.”

“ _I_ know!” Anne declared, her voice seeming to echo eternally in Gilbert’s ears. “I have known this entire time! I have every faith in you, Gil. There has never been a doubt in my mind that Redmond is where you belong and where you will be accepted. You don’t want to be a country doctor, you have aspirations far beyond our island, you are the smartest person I know – and don’t get a big head about it just because I said it aloud – and now everything is being laid out before you as perfectly as Mrs. Lynde’s hyacinth bushes and you’re snubbing it without a thought.”

“I’ve given it thought! More than one,” Gilbert bantered back.

“I don’t understand,” Anne said, her steam dulling as she looked imploringly at Gilbert, pleading for insight. “What’s holding you back?”

Seeing Anne begging for clarification had Gilbert’s heart pinching. She truly didn’t understand the pull she had on him; how much she meant to him. Anne was more than school, and medical practices, and vocational ambition.

She was everything, and it was time Gilbert told her.

Taking Anne’s hand – the one she’d used to strike the slate over his head the day they’d first met – Gilbert took his time tracing a finger over her palm, caressing the callouses from her writing, and the burns from her cooking, and the nearly invisible scars from a few chore mishaps. He interlocked their fingers, pressing their palms together in a caress not unlike a kiss before lifting her hand to tenderly peck each of her knuckles and then resting their joined hands over his surprisingly calm heart.

He looked at Anne and she looked at him, fire dancing in both their eyes, painting their skin bronze against a night that was holding its breath in anticipation when Gilbert finally parted his lips and spoke.

“Just…one thing.”

For a flash of a second, no more than a blink of a star twinkling in the heavens, or a flame leaping in the heart of a fire, or the last beautiful gasp of life as a raindrop tipped over from the storm clouds and began its plummet to earth, Anne saw the truth.

She saw that Gilbert Blythe was in love with her.

And she saw that she was in love with Gilbert Blythe. 

She saw it in the little bumblebees of gold that danced in his eyes, in the tempting dimple at his chin, in the way his curls twirled wild and free across his brow, in the serious line of his lips that were so often lifted at the corners in mischief and fun, in the comforting sweep of his thumb against hers, and in the steady rise and fall of his chest against the back of her hand.

Anne could see a thousand lifetimes, a thousand Annes and Gilberts, each one finding the other though the odds were insurmountable. It was as if she knew the very shape and colour of Gilbert’s soul and perceived it to be ideally compatible with her own, laced together like deep roots. She saw everything good, bad, and in-between that pieced together to make up Gilbert, and she saw that she was smitten with the whole picture.

Memories of their shared past and daydreams of their shared future fell about Anne like snowflakes, or raindrops, or apple blossoms. It was peaceful, and though she couldn’t manage to grasp onto one single image and hold it tight or study it with passionate scrutiny, it didn’t matter because it was Gilbert and no matter what he would always make her feel safe, and good, and happy.

In that single heartbeat of a moment, Anne understood.

She was in love with Gilbert Blythe.

And as quickly as she saw it, the revelation was gone.

It hadn’t disappeared, for once the heart knew love it could never forget. It was only lost, and though it would take time, Anne would find her way back to that polarizing truth – the only sane thing in her odd world – but that discovery was weeks away.

Presently, before the fire, under the stars, against the backdrop of a once humble lighthouse that got washed away one stormy night, Anne didn’t know what to say. Her mouth hung open in surprise as Gilbert’s words crashed about them with more force than the waves hitting the cliffside. Anne could feel her face going flush, heart racing, pulse pounding in her ears, and eyes stinging with the effort to hold back a deluge of tears. The inebriated bombardment of uncertainty, elation, guilt, relief, doubt, and even fear attacked Anne like a swarm of wasps, stinging her so brutally that she could only focus on lashing out in a desperate bid to protect herself.

“Gilbert,” she started, his name thick on her tongue as she forced herself to speak. The way he was looking at her, face an open book of earnestness, made finding the right words all the harder. “I…and how…b-b-but you hav…No!”

Her vehement outcry was enough to shock Gilbert so that his hold on her hand loosened and she tugged her fingers out of his grasp.

“I can’t – and you shouldn’t – we’ve NEVER! – no! No, no, no! How could you – why would – and I’m pirate – you’re not making – it doesn’t; not us, and – No! I won’t! No!”

Her final word was like the last nail in the coffin: resounding and firm. There was no arguing with her, but then Gilbert wasn’t so sure he wanted to argue. In fact, he was finding it hard to breathe as he stared at Anne, the flames he’d only moments before believed gave her a delicate glow now seeming too hot to touch and too potent to even look at. For the first time in a long time, Gilbert lowered his gaze from Anne’s face.

“I don’t understand,” he said, and it pained him so much he thought he might be sick.

“Gil I…”

Anne didn’t say another word. She only shook her head, her frown and the sorrowful compassion in her big grey eyes too much to bear.

She didn’t love him.

And from what he felt he could piece together from her stuttered denial of his feelings, Anne believed she would never love him. He wasn’t sure if that or her rejection of his love hurt more. Either way, he didn’t want to stick around and mull it over, at least, not for Anne to see.

“I’ll go then,” he announced, standing quickly.

“Gil, please –”

“You’ve said enough, Anne.”

“Please!” she begged, reaching for him and managing to snag the cuff of his jacket between her fingers before he could run away. Gilbert froze in place but he wouldn’t turn to look at Anne, fearing he’d collapse before her and weep, already feeling the angry prick of tears heating the seams of his eyes each time he tried to blink them back.

He wanted to yell at her, shake her, curse her for making him love her, and all for naught. He wanted to plead with her to give him time, give herself time, see if she mightn’t grow to love him. He wanted to know why.

So he stood silently and waited.

“I’m sorry,” she started, almost too quiet to hear, but her apology had Gilbert’s throat tightening. “If you’d just –”

“Anne!”

Gilbert would have never believed Tillie, Ruby, Josie and Jane to be his saving grace, but as it was, the four girls practically ambushed Anne, carelessly tearing her hold on him off as they surrounded their redheaded friend.

“We want to do a ritual.”

“To summon the wandering spirit of Captain Jim.”

“And you have to do it.”

“Surely you must know _some_ kind of conjuring spell.”

The quartet of girls babbled on as to how they expected Anne to conduct the seance, and Gilbert took advantage to begin his harried departure, thinking he felt Anne watching him go but refusing to look back.

He didn’t bother stopping for his lamp or his cap. He only wanted to get as far away from the Ruins – from Anne – as possible. He was eager to let himself get swallowed up by the darkness, walking at a rapid pace before finally breaking out into a desperate run, racing the heartache that had already starting chipping away at his soul, his gait so long and quick he could hardly feel the tears as they finally slipped down his cheeks.

How could he have gotten it so wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so writing that revelry scene was SO energizing! 
> 
> I don’t know about anyone else, but I have a fairly good memory of the first time I went drinking with my peers (I was sixteen and it was a cast party) and while I did overindulge some, I mostly remember having the time of my life. We played games and laughed and mixed liquor that should NEVER be mixed, and at one point someone did stand up on a table and started telling jokes. Then a few of us walked tipsy into Tim Hortons (cuz Canada, eh!) and stocked up on carbs, sitting on the curb at midnight eating honey crullers and apple fritters. Ah! Good times…
> 
> I pulled on a lot from that memory for this bonfire scene and it just brought back a lot of really awesome feelings and some bitter (but not prominent) nostalgia for those carefree, innocent days. 
> 
> And then, of course, there’s the other side of the coin when it comes to this whole chapter, and that is the ‘what’s-holding-you-back’ moment. I feel like I’ve pulled you from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other again (though hopefully not as badly or traumatically as I did with Chapter Nine).
> 
> When prepping for this scene, I knew it would go fairly similarly to how it did in the show: Gilbert would think he’s being obvious in his confession and Anne, in her inebriated state, would be unable to clearly communicate what she actually means because her sloshed brain can’t really process exactly what this handsome boy is saying to her. 
> 
> And our hated friend, ‘Miscommunication’, enters the scene to poop on everyone’s party. 
> 
> But as I’ve always promised, Anne and Gilbert will talk things out…it’s just gonna take some time for them to get there. After all, Gilbert thinks Anne has rejected his love, and Anne, despite her inebriated moment of clarity, still isn’t sure that she’s in love with Gilbert and more than that, thinks he’s being an idiot for giving up an incredible opportunity. 
> 
> Plus Anne has other emotional strains on her mind that she’s trying to work through, but all of this will come together in future chapters. 
> 
> And speaking of…
> 
> Next Chapter: Anne finally makes peace with Mathew’s memory and Gilbert makes and important decision.
> 
> As always, I am so appreciative to those who are reading, commenting, kudos-ing, bookmarking, recommending, and simply enjoying this story. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay strong, and be good people. 


End file.
